


Selection Criteria

by Bunnywest



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU - werewolf dominant society, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Because of Reasons, Enemies to Lovers, Forced Marriage, Good Parent Sheriff Stilinski, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Pack(s), Sassy Peter Hale, Slow Burn, Upgrade that to definitely smut, Werewolf Courting, Werewolf Culture, You know its desperate when Peter is the better option, because I have no idea where this is going exactly, but probably smut, did I say probably smut?, its the lesser of two evils, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 56,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27073033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: Stiles knew there were people out there who viewed pack selection invitations as a form of slavery, a tangible reminder that werewolves were the dominant species who got what they wanted. They were the same people who looked at the bite as a burden rather than a gift, who claimed that the invitations weren't invitations as much as they were a summons that couldn't be ignored.Personally? Stiles couldn’t see the downside. He’d seen the members of the local pack, okay? So if the powerful and frankly gorgeous Hales ever decided they wanted to swoop in and basically adopt him, and if somewhere down the line he got supernatural powers and a partner, maybe hot like burning Derek Hale?Sign him the fuck up.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 1940
Kudos: 2067
Collections: Favourite Steter fics, Silver - TW, Steter collection, Teen Wolf fics I love to reread, Treasured Stories





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, y'all! I have a vague idea where this is going, but fair warning, I'm working on a book right now so this will probably only update once a week.  
> As always, how long will it be?  
> No clue.  
> I'm gonna say...kinda long.

“I still say it's a form of servitude,” Scott said, brow furrowed.

Stiles shrugged and threw a piece of popcorn at him. “Look at you, quoting anti-werewolf propaganda. I bet you don’t even know what servitude is.”

“No, I mean think about it. You're tied to the pack and it’s pretty much expected you’ll marry one of them and take the bite,” Scott insisted. “It’s all about bloodlines. You’re no better than a broodmare.”

“Excuse you, if anything I'd be a stud, except we both know I won’t be fathering anyone unless male werewolf pregnancy is a thing. Besides, in return I'd get the protection of the pack, a werewolf partner, and a free ride to college if I want it, plus my dad would get an ex gratia payment that meant he could retire,” Stiles ticked the points in favour off on his fingers. “What’s not to like? Plus, you know that the marrying thing’s optional. It’s not like they wanna be stuck in a miserable partnership either, you know? I say it’s a sweet deal.”

“No thanks,” Scott said, folding his arms over his chest, mouth thinning in disapproval. “I’m not interested in taking part in a mating meat market.”

“Sour grapes. You just object because you know they’ll never pick you.” Stiles ducked to avoid the throw pillow that Scott chucked his way. “Hey, I’m just telling it like it is. Your grades suck, you have chronic asthma, you don’t want the bite, and you have no friends. You don’t tick the boxes.”

Scott scowled at the accurate assessment, then leaned over and shoved Stiles hard enough that he slid off the couch, landing with a loud thump. Stiles yelped as his ass hit the floorboards, then grabbed at Scott’s hands and dragged him down on top of him, laughing as he did so. “Never mind Scotty, I still love your dumb, antisocial, wheezy ass,” he said with a grin.

He could see Scott doing his best to stay mad, but they both knew it was a losing battle. It was one of the things Stiles liked about Scott--he couldn’t hold a grudge if you paid him. In the end Scott just shrugged and stood up, pulling Stiles with him. “I don’t wanna tick their boxes anyway,” he said with something close to a pout.

"Its a moot point. We don't even know if they're having a selection this year," Stiles pointed out. The Selections didn't keep to any schedule - they happened when the pack needed new blood, or if there was someone they were particularly interested in. Once it had been twice in the same year, another time there had been a four year gap.

And sure, Stiles knew there were people out there who viewed pack selection invitations as a form of slavery, a tangible reminder that werewolves were the dominant species who got what they wanted, and looked at the bite as a burden rather than a gift--case in point, Scott--the same people who claimed the invitations were really a summons.

Personally, though? Stiles didn’t see the downside. He’d seen the members of the local pack, okay? So if the powerful and frankly gorgeous Hales ever decided they wanted to swoop in and basically adopt him, and if somewhere down the line he got supernatural powers and a partner, maybe even hot like burning Derek Hale?

Sign him the fuck up.

* * *

When Stiles burst in the back door of the house after school two weeks later, it was to find his dad sitting at the kitchen table, turning an unopened letter over in his hands with a bemused expression on his face. Stiles caught sight of the crest embossed on the envelope and his breath caught. “Is that--”

His dad’s mouth quirked. “Looks like it.” He tossed the letter and Stiles scrambled to catch it. Even the envelope was a thick, creamy vellum that spoke of power and money, and Stiles took a moment to appreciate the moment, savor what it meant. There was a Selection, and _Stiles was invited._

Not everyone was.

The local pack had access to school, police, and medical records and made their selection based on that, as well as taking their own observations of likely candidates into account. Stiles hadn’t been lying when he said Scott would never qualify. Candidates were academically gifted, in good physical health, usually popular with their peers, and although it wasn’t officially acknowledged, they were all reasonably attractive. It made sense--the whole point of the exercise was to introduce new bloodlines to the pack and prevent inbreeding, after all.

“You gonna open that?” his dad prompted. Stiles nodded, and slid a finger under the flap of the envelope, pulling out the letter and unfolding it. There’d been rumors that this would be the year the pack was extending invitations, but Stiles still couldn’t quite believe he got to be part of it.

He skimmed the contents quickly. It was full of formal wording, but at the heart of it, the Hale Pack wanted to meet him and discuss his suitability for a place in their pack, with an option to accept the bite and find a life partner from their ranks. If both sides were agreeable, arrangements would be put in place.

 _If both sides were agreeable._ Stiles snorted. It was a huge honor to even be considered for this, and it was rare that anyone ever said no. The werewolves had made sure that there was plenty to entice the chosen humans, and very little to deter them. It was made crystal clear that any partnerships formed were purely voluntary, as was taking the bite--in theory, anyway. Every so often someone would pop up with a tale of a family member bitten or mated under duress, but those stories always seemed to sink without trace almost as soon as they appeared. Stiles chose to believe it was because they weren’t true.

The letter contained the time and place of Stiles’s first meeting with the pack, a dinner for all candidates and the entire pack. _Semi-formal_ , it said, and Stiles groaned. His bank account wasn't in any state for him to go shopping, and he mentally scanned his wardrobe in an effort to think of anything that might do in a pinch. He brightened when he read further, though.

_‘The Hale pack extends the use of their credit facilities to all candidates who would like to look their best on for the occasion.’_

There followed a list of local clothing businesses that would accept the invitation as a letter of credit. It was a tease, he recognized that--a glimpse into what it would be like being part of the pack, not having to count every cent. As an incentive, it was incredibly effective.

He read the rest of the details and looked across at his father, a grin splitting his face. “Wanna go suit shopping with me on the Hales’ dime?”

His father gave him a smile that was almost rueful. “So this is how it starts, huh? Congratulations, kid. I know you wanted this.”

“Thanks, Pops.It’s only slightly terrifying.”

His dad frowned at that. “You can say no, you know that?”

Stiles took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “No, it’s not--I want this, I'm just terrified I’ll screw it up.”

His dad stood and extended his arms. Stiles stepped into the proffered hug and immediately felt better at the smell of his dad’s aftershave and the familiar shape of his broad chest. A hand ruffled his hair. “Want me to come to the dinner and kick you under the table if your foot’s heading for your mouth?”

It was perfectly acceptable for candidates to bring a parent, especially those under eighteen, and Stiles appreciated the offer, but he said, “Nah, if I’m gonna make a fool of myself I'd sooner you weren't there to see it. Besides, I'm not making you wear a suit and tie on your night off.”

His dad’s chest shook as he laughed. “I appreciate it, kid, but let me know if you change your mind. When’s the dinner?”

“Next weekend.“ Stiles reluctantly pulled back. “I figure I should look for something to wear early, so I’ll have plenty of time to second guess my choices.”

His dad laughed again and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ve been to plenty of pack dinners for work. I’ll make sure you look the part, don’t worry.”

Some of Stiles’s nervousness melted away at that, and the excitement started to make itself known again. There was a Selection, and _he was part of it._ He squirmed in his dad’s hold. “So, when can we go shopping?”

His dad gave a resigned sigh. “You’ll be like a cat on a hot tin roof till we go, huh?’

“Probably.” Stiles grinned when his dad grabbed the car keys.

* * *

Finding something to wear proved to be easier than Stiles thought - as soon as he showed his letter, the sales assistant’s face lit up in understanding, and he led Stiles over to a display and told him anything there would be suitable. Stiles wondered if it had been set up specifically for Selection candidates. It didn't take long to select some black dress pants and a nice button down, and top it off with a nicely cut charcoal blazer. Once they added a tie, Stiles thought he looked pretty damned good, if he did say so himself. Then the man helping them insisted that he add some dress shoes, assuring Stiles that the Hales really wouldn’t think he was taking advantage. “You’ll probably be back again once you start going on dates,” he commented offhandedly.

“Maybe they won’t want to date me,” Stiles said, chewing nervously on his bottom lip. “Maybe they’ll change their mind when they meet me, or they’ll find out the other candidates are better suited.”

The man shrugged. “I never heard of a candidate getting rejected after they’ve been invited to the dinner, unless they fail the medical.”

 _The medical._ Stiles tried to stamp down on his nerves at the thought of it. Every candidate, after meeting the pack and agreeing to move forward, underwent a thorough examination. He wasn't looking forward to being prodded and poked and made to pee in a cup, but he comforted himself with the thought that it never hurt to get a clean bill of health, especially with somebody else footing the bill. The official line was that it was to make sure candidates were suitable for the bite, but word was that it was the fertility tests the pack were most interested in, which made sense.

Of course, he assumed the Hales knew he was gay and wouldn’t be providing any furry little bundles of joy anytime soon. They _had_ to know. He hadn't exactly kept it secret--a glance at any of his social media made it clear. And at the talk that Talia Hale gave at the school every year to outline the selection process, she always said that a candidate’s sexuality didn’t matter.

He guessed there were gay werewolves as well.

He thanked the man and took his purchases, and tried not to think about the total he’d seen on the sales slip. He’d joked about shopping on the Hale dime, but he really hoped he hadn’t gone overboard.

They went out for dinner afterward, because his dad declared he’d earned a steak, and Stiles felt like he had as well. Still, he was dressed and ready to go. Now he just had to wait a week and not vibrate out of his skin with nerves.

Easy.

* * *

It helped when he got to school the next day and talked to the others who’d been invited. It made it less surreal to sit with Isaac Lahey, Jackson Whittemore and Lydia Martin and discuss what came next. Stiles had expected there to be more candidates, but then again, the Hales only ever chose the best, and all four of them were at the top of their game academically and socially.

Isaac was smart as a whip and had the face of an angel. His selection was no surprise--Talia had taken an interest in him and helped arrange a foster family when his abusive piece of shit father was locked away--something Stiles was pleased to say his dad had had a hand in making happen.

Jackson could have made the cut on his looks alone, but he was also an achiever on the sports field and had consistently good grades. He was something of an asshole at times but hey, so was Stiles.

Lydia was a genius and perfect and divine. Stiles had pined wildly after her for all of five minutes, right until he’d had the revelation that he admired her in the way that one admired, say, a classical statue--he was drawn to her undeniable beauty, but it was more an intellectual appreciation than any kind of attraction. He’d had the revelation at around the same time he’d realized that hey, he was as gay as they come, and when he pictured his future there wasn’t a little wife anywhere in it.

When Stiles told Scott he'd been selected, Scott gave Stiles sad puppy dog eyes and reminded him that he didn't have to do this, he wasn’t a trophy to be collected. Stiles appreciated the sentiment, even if it was misguided, but he still told Scott he was going ahead with it. “Dude, it’s the chance of a lifetime.”

“It’s the loss of a lifetime--yours,” Scott countered.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yeah yeah, it's a tragedy. However will I cope?”

Scott muttered something under his breath and slunk off, and Stiles didn’t follow him. If Scott was upset that Stiles was what the Hales wanted and Scott wasn’t, well, he’d just have to deal. Personally, Stiles wasn’t buying his whole thing about there being a dark side to the selections.

Scott was just jealous.

* * *

The week flew by, and soon enough it was Saturday evening. Stiles sat perched on the arm of the couch, drumming his fingers against his leg and wondering if it was too early to leave. His dad rolled his eyes after he caught him checking his watch for the fourth time. “Sure you don’t want me to come?”

Stiles seriously considered it, but in the end he shook his head. “I’m good. I just want this first meeting to be done, you know?”

He’d seen the Hales around town, of course he had, but tonight he’d be meeting the entire pack, being _judged_ by them. He’d never been so keenly aware of all his flaws as he was right now, and he couldn’t quite push down the nagging fear that one of them would step forward, point to him, and go, “We don’t want _that_ in our pack, thank you,” and that would be that.

His dad must have had some sense of what he was feeling because he stood from his seat on the couch and walked over until he was right in front of Stiles, casting a critical eye up and down him before reaching out and tugging an errant lock of hair into place, and then promptly ruining his handiwork by ruffling Stiles’s hair. “You’ll do fine, kid. The Hales don’t invite people into their pack on a whim.”

Stiles let out a long breath. “I know, Dad. I just hope I don’t offend them or do something stupid like spill red wine down someone’s white shirt.”

His dad raised an eyebrow. “And what would my seventeen year old son be doing with a glass of red wine?”

Stiles flapped a hand. “Hypothetically, I mean.”

“It had better be. Selection doesn’t lower the drinking age and you know it.”

Neither of them mentioned the _other_ age related law, the one that _was_ superseded by selection. That wasn't a discussion Stiles wanted to have with his dad - ever. Instead, he grinned and flailed his arms dramatically. “What, you think I can’t knock someone else’s wine over? Have you met me?”

His dad grinned back. “Fair point.” He checked the clock on the wall, the one Stiles’s mom had made in a craft course once. It was truly hideous, and neither of them would dream of getting rid of it. “If you head off now you won’t be embarrassingly early.”

“Trying to get rid of me?” Stiles teased. It was the closest they’d come to addressing the fact that if he passed muster tonight, once he’d undergone the medical he’d be moving in with the pack pretty much straight away.

“Absolutely. Can’t wait till you’re out of my hair. Maybe I’ll call Talia and offer to pay her, instead of the other way around.”

Stiles snorted. “You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

“Yeah,” his dad said, his mood abruptly serious. “Yeah, I will. Come visit me, okay?”

“I promise.” His dad looked him in the eye, then dragged him into a rough hug, one that said exactly how much he’d miss his son.

They stayed like that for a minute before his dad drew back, and Stiles pretended not to notice him wiping his eyes roughly or the way his voice sounded wet when he said, “Jesus kid, what’s with your hair? Go fix it.”

Stiles let out an exaggerated huff and went to the bathroom and his dad was right. His carefully styled hair, freshly cut the day before, was now a mess that stuck up in multiple directions. Stiles prodded at it for a bit and tried to restore order, but in the end he decided that hair by hug was a thing, and he kinda liked it that way.

A quick glance at his watch told him that he really did have to get moving, so after a last look in the mirror he headed for the door, clutching his car keys tightly like a good luck charm.

 _It’ll be fine. They chose you._ He repeated it to himself like a mantra, and it helped calm his nerves.

He’d go, and they’d love him, and he’d join the pack.

It would be the beginning of the rest of his life, and it would be _awesome._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles meets Peter for the first time.  
> It doesn't exactly go swimmingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse any typos- I was literally up all night for a book launch and my brain is a puddle of mush right now, but I did promise you weekly updates.

Everyone called it the Hale House, but it wasn’t really a house, per se. Sure, there was the main building, but there were several other, smaller houses in the immediate vicinity where the other members of the pack lived with their families. If pressed, Stiles would describe it as a community. Scott would probably call it a cult.

Whatever it was, it was intimidating. Stiles parked his jeep and took a moment to get his bearings. The house was bathed in lights and surrounded by a wide verandah that ran all the way round the building. Stiles could hear voices drifting from inside into the still night air. As much as marrying into the pack wasn’t compulsory, he was actually kind of excited by the thought that one of those voices might belong to someone who was going to be his partner.

He ran his fingers through his hair, fiddled with his tie nervously, then got out of the car and walked towards the front door. He’d just lifted his hand to knock when the door opened and Talia Hale was standing right in front of him. _The_ Talia Hale—the Alpha. He swallowed nervously. “Hi, uh—I’m Stiles.” 

Talia’s smile was warm and welcoming. “Come in, Stiles. Don’t be nervous, we don’t bite—at least, not until the paperwork is complete.” There was a twinkle in her eye as she said it.

Stiles followed her through to a large dining area where various pack members were already seated and she showed him to his place at the table next to the other candidates. He accepted the glass of water that someone offered him and sat quietly, watching the people around him.

Cora and Laura and Derek he knew on sight, as well as Talia’s husband Michael. He’d been a selection, Stiles remembered dimly. It seemed to have worked out for him—he stood close to his wife, one hand grazing her lower back, and there was genuine affection between them. There were a couple of older Hales that he hadn't seen before but their bone structure pegged them immediately as family members. Most of them seemed to have partners, and Stiles found it reassuring that he didn't immediately see any of the tension that was sometimes obvious between unhappy couples.

He and the other candidates were seated near the head of the table and when Talia tapped her glass with a fork, the younger family members headed to the kitchen and came back bearing platters of food.

They’d kept it simple, Stiles was glad to see, finger foods that he couldn’t possibly make a mess with. He filled his plate with what he judged to be an appropriate amount of savory pastries, not wanting to look like a total heathen.

He half-listened to the conversations around him as he concentrated on not getting crumbs all over his shirt but didn’t join in until Talia asked him a direct question. “So Stiles, I assume you’ll want to go to college when you graduate. Any preferences?”

Stiles quickly swallowed his mouthful and trotted out the polite answer. “Wherever you think is best, Alpha.” Some packs, he knew, didn’t like their members straying far from home.

“Oh _please_ , spare us prissy little boys with their pat responses,” an unfamiliar voice drawled. Stiles turned to find an older man with dark hair, piercing blue eyes and a killer jawline that instantly marked him as a Hale. He was watching Stiles from where he was seated next to Talia, his eyes narrowed. “Unless you really _are_ that pitiful and indecisive that you can’t even choose a college, in which case, why are we considering you again?” the man asked, his upper lip curling in distaste.

Stiles had a sudden, overwhelming urge to punch the man—right until he looked again and took in the fact that the man was sitting on Talia’s _left,_ which meant he was Talia’s _Left Hand,_ which meant— _fuck—_ Stiles had somehow managed to piss off _Peter Hale,_ the pack enforcer.

Stiles swallowed thickly as his annoyance left him, replaced by a sudden dread that all his worst fears were coming to pass. One sentence, and this man had deemed him unworthy. He was still trying to formulate a reply when Talia snapped, “Peter! Stop terrorizing the candidates.”

Peter smirked. “But it’s such fun watching them squirm. Besides, there’s no place in the pack for fragile little flowers.”

Stiles couldn’t help himself, stung by the man’s dismissive tone, and hey, if was going to get kicked out he might as well have the last word. “Flowers like wolfsbane, maybe?”

There was a sudden, shocked silence around the table, and for a horrible second Stiles was certain he’d just earned himself an invitation to leave, but then Peter threw back his head and laughed, showing far too many teeth before saying, ”Better. Don’t play at meek and mild Stiles, it doesn’t suit you.”

Stiles wasn’t sure if it was a pass or a reprimand, and Peter's expression gave him nothing to work with so he just said, “As for college? Berkeley, if I had the choice.”

Peter made a noncommittal hum and went back to eating as Talia asked the same question of the other candidates, but when Stiles glanced over once or twice Peter’s eyes were on him, assessing, and Stiles was struck by a certainty that although Talia was the one asking questions, Peter was definitely the one judging the answers

The main course was a slow roasted joint of beef with a medley of vegetables, and Stiles was fairly proud that he managed to answer some questions from Talia and take part in a conversation with Cora without dropping food down himself.

As the meal went on Stiles found himself relaxing more and more, and apart from Peter, who Stiles had decided was an utter dick, most of the pack went out of their way to make him and the others feel comfortable. Once dessert had been served Talia gave a nod and everyone rose and left the table, following her into a large sitting room. “Take some time, get to know the pack, and then I'd like to chat to you all one on one and you can ask any questions you might have and decide if you’d like to proceed with your candidacy,” she told the four guests.

“Like anyone would say no,” Isaac murmured to Stiles.

“Right?” Stiles agreed quietly. Being selected was like—it was like dating a famous actor, a Hemsworth maybe. Sure, there were adjustments, but it was something most people only dreamed of. You’d have to be mad to turn down the opportunity.

* * *

What followed was half an hour or so of pleasantries, with Stiles first being greeted by Derek’s older brothers Ryan and Paul, who were both far more outgoing than their taciturn brother. Both the men lived in the next town over and ran a cabinet making business together, but they’d made the effort to be here tonight along with Ryan’s wife, who Stiles knew had previously been Selected.

Paul actually clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him on managing to hold his own with Peter, which soothed away any lingering doubts Stiles had over whether he’d crossed a line. Peter had deserved it, anyway. Just because he was the pack enforcer, that didn’t mean he got to be a jerk.

After the brothers had wished Stiles well in the selection and moved on, Stiles found himself face to face with Cora. “Hey, Stiles. I’m glad you made the cut,” she said with a smirk, “we can always do with more pretty boys around the place.” He found himself wondering if Cora had any kind of romantic interest in him, and from the expression on her face she knew exactly what he was thinking. “Relax. I know you’re not into me, which by the way is frankly insulting, because I’m gorgeous.” She arched an eyebrow, daring him to disagree.

“Definitely gorgeous,” Stiles said, swallowing.

She grinned at him then. “Don’t worry, here are plenty of eligible bachelors eyeing you off. There’s Derek and Paul for a start, and one of the younger cousins, Matty, was checking out your ass, and of course there’s always Peter,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

Stiles snorted. “Yeah no I’ll pass on that last one. He’s a dick.”

Cora’s eyes widened and just as Stiles was about to ask her what was up, Peter appeared in his eye-line from somewhere behind him. He fixed Stiles with a glare, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like _rude little shit_ , and before Stiles could say anything at all, Peter’s long stride had carried him across to the far corner of the room where he leaned against the wall, hands rammed deep in his pockets, and scowled at Stiles with a face like thunder.

Cora made a sympathetic hissing noise, and Stiles let out a groan. “Fuck,” he said with feeling. “I should probably apologize, right?”

“If you want any chance at Selection, yeah. Uncle Peter can hold a grudge like you wouldn’t believe, and he can actually veto applicants.”

Stiles frowned “Wait, I thought only the Alpha could do that?”

Cora shook her head. “The Left Hand can override the Alpha on this one thing, if they think there’s something off about a candidate.”

Well, shit. Stiles hadn’t known that. He licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair, muttered, “Wish me luck,” and walked over to Peter.

“I, uh, sorry,” he said. Peter stared at him silently, and fuck if those piercing blue eyes weren’t boring into his very soul and judging him. He cleared his throat and tried again. “That was rude of me.”

“It was, yes,” Peter said.

“So, this is me, apologizing.”

“Hmm.” Peter pulled a hand out of his pocket and examined his fingernails—no, his _claws,_ sliding them in and out casually like it was nothing, a deliberate reminder of what he was. “Your sincerity is underwhelming, Stiles.”

Stiles bristled at that. “You started it! You called me prissy!”

Peter raised his head again, his gaze steely, and Stiles fought the urge to hide under a table somewhere just from the amount of raw, predatory energy rolling off the man. “If the shoe fits, sweetheart.”

Stiles wasn’t expecting the shiver that ran down his spine or the heat that pooled in his belly at Peter calling him sweetheart. _He meant it as an insult,_ he told himself, and shoved his reaction aside for now, concentrating instead on his apology. “Fine. I took offence, okay? But I still shouldn't have called you a dick.” Peter’s face remained impassive, so Stiles forged on. “I don’t want there to be any hard feelings. I’d hate my bad manners to affect my selection.”

At that, Peter’s expression hardened and he pulled away from the wall and stood to his full height, stepping forward so he was eye to eye with Stiles, their faces only inches apart. “Are you telling me,” he said in the most threatening whisper Stiles had ever heard, “that you’re under the impression that I’m the sort of petty individual who would compromise the wellbeing and future of my pack and reject an acceptable candidate, just because my _feelings were hurt?”_

Well, when he put it like that.

Stiles wondered if he could go and hide under that table now. Instead, he took a moment, breathing deeply and closing his eyes. When he opened them Peter was looking at him expectantly. Stiles chose his words carefully, aware that as much as Peter was a dick, he was also incredibly influential. “Look, I didn't mean it like that. I don’t think you’d compromise the pack. Although in fairness you weren’t meant to hear what I said, and there’s that old saying about people who eavesdrop only hearing ill of themselves, so maybe you shouldn’t have been lurking.” Peter's right eye gave a tiny twitch, and Stiles cringed when he replayed what he'd just said over in his mind. ”Aaaand now I’ve managed to insult you again instead of apologizing, and I’ve dug myself an even deeper hole, haven’t I?”

Peter leaned right in close, breath hot against Stiles’s ear. “Sweetheart, I can see _China_ from here. Best quit while you’re behind.” He stepped back slightly, giving Stiles room to breathe, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “But you at least tried to make up for your abysmal manners, so I’ll give it a pass—this time.”

If Stiles concentrated, he could almost feel the puff of air on his face from the bullet he’d just dodged. “Thank you,” he said with as much sincerity as he could muster, and Peter gave a nod, wearing the barest hint of a smirk.

Stiles turned to make his escape, determined to avoid Peter at all costs for the rest of the evening, and got exactly three steps before he ran into a wall of muscle. He flailed for a moment before looking up to see Derek watching him, clearly amused. “Stiles,” he said, “What has you bolting like a scared rabbit?”

Stiles flushed and made a point of not looking back at Peter. “Nothing! Just, um, mingling, y’know, gotta mingle, that’s what we’re here for, king of the minglers, that’s me,” he babbled.

Derek rolled his eyes. “Talia’s ready to start the one on ones and she’d like to begin with you,” Derek said. “Follow me.”

Stiles nodded and followed Derek upstairs and into a large office where Talia was seated behind a timber desk. Stiles took one of the two chairs opposite, memories of being called to the principal’s office replaying in his brain, and he had to resist the urge to look at his shoes, scuff his feet and apologize for existing. _She's not going to scold you_ , he reminded himself. _She wants to get to know you._

“Nervous?” Talia asked knowingly, and of course she could tell, Stiles’s heart was beating like a bass drum. Hell, the wolves downstairs could probably hear it.

“Yeah,” he breathed out, “sorry.” Maybe the pack didn’t want people who were prone to nerves, maybe they only wanted strong, confident types. _Prissy little boy_ echoed in his mind, taunting him. He sat up straighter. He could be confident—no, he _was_ confident. He was a goddam gift and the pack would be lucky to have him.

Talia nodded approvingly. “Nothing to be nervous about, Stiles. Mainly this is a chance for us to talk and for you to ask any questions. Every candidate has at least one. And believe me,” she added with a wry smile, ”whatever it is, we’ve heard it all before.”

Stiles smiled back, the tension in his chest easing, This wasn’t a test or a trap, this was the pack Alpha doing her best to make sure they were a good fit, that there weren’t unreasonable expectations. He decided he’d ask the one thing he _was_ curious about. “So, if selection is about improving the genetic diversity of the pack, why—“

He was interrupted by the door opening and Peter sliding into the seat next to his. Peter smiled at him in a way that reminded Stiles of used car salesmen and serial killers, not necessarily in that order. “Stiles, good to see you again.”

“Peter always sits in on the interviews as a third party observer,” Talia said, “if that’s alright with you, Stiles?”

Stiles had a sudden inkling of what Scott had meant when he’d talked about Selection giving the _illusion_ of consent, because he couldn’t really say no to Peter's presence, could he? “Oh, uh, sure! The more the merrier, right?”

“Now, what were you asking? Something about genetic diversity?” Talia made a hand gesture indicating she wanted him to continue.

“Yeah, it’s...I understand that the reason for inviting people into the pack is to diversify the gene pool, but, uh. I’m gay. So I guess I was wondering why you’d bother considering me, since I’m really not your guy when it comes to growing the pack? Unless...there’s not some clause where I still have to father a child, is there?”

A tiny frown line appeared between Talia’s brows for just a second, there and gone, before her features smoothed out again. “No, Stiles. We don’t expect you to become a parent against your will.”

Stiles was more relieved than he wanted to admit, but he was still curious. “So, where’s the gain for the pack then? Aren’t I just a freeloader if I can’t provide you with children?”

“I’ll answer that, Talia, if you don’t mind,” Peter said, leaning forward in his chair and planting his elbows on his knees, “As one _freeloader_ to another _.”_ Peter fairly spat the word out.

Well, fuck. He’d managed to piss Peter off _again_. Stiles held back a groan.

Talia didn’t seem too concerned though, simply nodded. “Go ahead, Peter.”

Peter turned his full attention on Stiles. “Funny, your school reports say you’re incredibly clever, yet you seem to be carrying unconscious biases about werewolves without even being aware of it.”

“I am not!” Stiles said, stung.

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Really? You’ve assumed that we’re selecting you based on the quality of your sperm, which, apart from being a _breathtaking_ display of egotism on your part, plays into the stereotype of werewolves being no better than animals at heart, base creatures who are driven by a need to reproduce. It infers that we have no appreciation for the contributions made by new pack members unless it’s as baby making machines, which is simply not true.”

“But during the medical you test fertility, everyone knows that,” Stiles protested, bristling.“New blood in the pack, it's a thing!”

Peter’s response was clipped. “The medical clearance does test fertility, yes. It also tests things like heart and lung function, blood pressure, and overall fitness. As well, we test for any genetic markers of hereditary conditions—for example, in your case we’ll be checking for the indicators for Frontotemporal Dementia. And do you know _why_ we test all that? It’s so that if there _is_ anything that’s a major concern, we can get a care plan in place, or alternatively discuss whether it might be cured by the bite. If our Selections marry into the pack and choose to have a family, of course we’re thrilled—just like any other family would be. But at heart, the medical is about peace of mind for both parties. It's a gift we give to you, and it’s about pack looking after their own, babies be damned.”

“Oh,” Stiles said quietly, all the fight leaving him. He hadn’t really thought about it from that perspective, but hearing it laid out like that made all kinds of sense.

“Yes, _oh_ ,” Peter echoed archly. “Stiles, we value _all_ our pack members. They enrich the pack just by being part of it and contribute through their interactions. Has it occurred to you that your attitude devalues every pack member who, for whatever reason, doesn’t have children? _Including_ myself,” he added before sitting back in his chair, lips pursed in disapproval. Stiles almost felt bad for him.

He stared at the floor silently for a moment and mulled over what Peter had said, and was forced to admit he was right. Stiles had apparently soaked up more of Scott’s bullshit that he’d thought. The silence stretched uncomfortably and neither Talia nor Peter made any move to break it, until finally Stiles couldn’t take it anymore.

He shuffled in his seat. “I, uh. I’m really sorry. It’s just that everyone always talks about ‘ _bringing diversity to the pack_ ’ and it’s assumed they’re talking about kids.” He risked a glance up at Peter, who was still stony-faced but raised an eyebrow for him to continue. “I didn’t really think you’d force me to partner someone if I didn’t want to, I swear, and I never meant to devalue anyone. I apologize—again.”

Talia sighed. “It’s fine, Stiles. As I say, it's nothing we haven’t heard before. No matter how clear we try to be about what our expectations are, there’s always a segment of the community who will never trust werewolves, and it sounds like you might have inadvertently been misled, that’s all.” She hesitated. “Moving on to the next issue, I must confess it seems indelicate to bring this up now, especially when we’ve just assured you there’s no expectation for you to partner a pack member, but it’s all part of the interview process, so I have to ask. If you _are_ asked to date a pack member and are willing to do so, are you aware of the protocols surrounding chaperoned dating?”

Stiles nodded. “Three date rule, the same as with humans.”

“Not quite,”Peter broke in, “There has to be a —”

“—minimum of three chaperoned public outings before the relationship can be formalized. Werewolves choose their partners faster than humans, safeguard, yada yada yada,” Stiles recited. He thought he saw the slight upward tick of Talia’s lips at that last part.

Peter, though, just muttered,“As if anyone would date you more than once _,_ ” under his breath, earning a glare from Talia and causing Stiles to take back every sympathetic thought he’d had previously. Peter was one to talk—no wonder the guy didn’t have kids. Who’d want to be in the same room long enough?

Talia cleared her throat. “Is there anything else before we go ahead and complete your Selection contract and schedule the medical?”

Stiles blinked. “What, now? Don’t you want to, I dunno, grill me some more?”

“Honesty, I don’t think I could take much more of your company tonight,” Peter snapped, “and we have other candidates to get through, so I say we get this over with, complete the paperwork, and schedule the medical. Perhaps once you’re living with us you’ll put that supposedly giant brain of yours to work, get the facts, and stop assuming the worst of us.”

 _“Manners, Peter,”_ Talia said, a low-pitched warning growl that even Stiles felt in his bones.

Peter rolled his eyes so hard Stiles could see the whites, but he drawled, “Apologies, sister dearest.” Stiles could tell it was killing him, but Peter managed to dredge up the smile from earlier, the one that was either creepy or charming, Stiles couldn't decide. Then he leaned over and clasped Stiles’s hands between his own, applying just enough pressure for it to be uncomfortable. “Congratulations, Stiles. If you’d like to follow me to my office, I'd be glad to help you fill out your contract. Is Monday good for the medical?”

“Monday would be perfect. I’ll look forward to it,” Stiles said brightly, and in what was admittedly a dick move, squeezed Peter’s hands back, as hard as he could. There wasn’t an inch of give though, and if that wasn’t Peter Hale in a goddam nutshell, Stiles didn’t know what was.

* * *

The contract itself was pretty much cut and dried and he filled it out quickly, aware of Peter’s eyes on him. At one stage Peter said, “If there’s anything you’re unsure of in there, please ask. The contract is legally binding.”

“No thanks, I’m pretty sure my _supposedly giant brain_ can figure it out,” Stiles said breezily.

Of course, when he turned to the second page there was one question he had no clue about, but the way Peter was watching, as if he was _expecting_ Stiles to need help, made him dig his heels in. He read it again, more carefully the second time, and finally figured out what it was asking. He wrote _NO_ boldly in the square provided, and efficiently worked his way down the rest of the page, answering the questions easily before signing the bottom with a flourish.

He offered the paperwork to Peter while ignoring the slight tremor in his hand, and he tried not to think about the fact he was holding his entire future in his hands. 

“Welcome to the pack, Stiles,” Peter said as he took the contract, and his smile was sincere this time, Stiles could tell.

Stiles couldn’t stop a grin from splitting his face in response.

He’d made the cut, and he’d signed the contract.

He was pack.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles settles into life with the pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editing? I don't know her.  
> Seriously, I'm posting on the fly before I drive for five hours to get home. I'll chase down stray typos at some time in the not too distant future.

The medical was mostly painless, somewhat embarrassing, and over in a couple of hours, and when Stiles got the call later the same day—because god forbid the Hales should do something as mundane as wait for test results—to say he was generally healthy and free of the markers of his mother’s disease, it was like someone had lifted a weight that he hadn’t even known he was carrying. He might have cried a little bit from sheer relief.

And then he wiped his eyes, took a deep breath, and drove over to the Hale house, where Talia was waiting to welcome him. He was greeted with a warm hug from her that pulled at something deep in his chest, easing his nerves and making him feel truly welcome. When she let go, she said, “I know you aren’t moving in today, but Peter will take you and show you your suite, and you can let me know if it meets your needs.”

“Sorry, did you say a _suite_?”

“Are you questioning your Alpha, Stiles?” Peter said right in his ear, making Stiles let out a startled squawk and flail madly. Peter smirked, and Stiles swore he’d done it on purpose, the dick.

“Jesus, Peter,” he gasped out.

“Just Peter is fine. And to answer your question yes, a suite. We find it helpful for every pack member to have a living space of their own. It eases the strain caused by communal living and stops the downstairs turning into a madhouse.”

“Huh. That makes sense I guess.”

“So glad you approve. Shall we?” And with that, Peter’s hand was at the small of his back, his broad palm warm through the thin fabric of Stiles’s shirt as Peter propelled him forward towards the staircase that led upstairs.

Stiles shivered at the touch and couldn’t help himself. “I thought you had to buy me dinner three times first?”

Peter gave him a flat look. “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. I’m just helping you get used to werewolves’ tactile natures. That, and every time one of us touches you, it makes you smell more like pack, helps chase away the ingrained stench of Doritos and teenage sexual frustration ”

“Hey!” Stiles was about to launch into a spirited defense of his cleanliness when Talia’s voice cut through the air.

“Peter, stop teasing and take Stiles to his room. Jackson’s on his way.”

Peter rolled his eyes and grumbled something under his breath about Talia being no fun while Stiles surreptitiously sniffed his shirt and was horrified to discover that it did in fact have a kinda cheesy tang to it, a reminder of his afternoon snack.

“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll give you the Doritos. But I’m pretty sure you're meant to keep your nose—and your opinions—to yourself.”

Peter just smirked as they reached the top of the stairs and steered Stiles to a door at the end of the hallway. “Here we are,” he said, and swung the door open with a flourish that Stiles felt wasn’t really necessary—right until he caught sight of the suite.

Stiles stood in the doorway, stunned. Sure, Talia had _said_ suite, but Stiles had still somehow been expecting a single bedroom, maybe with a bathroom attached. But this was something else.

He stepped into a spacious sitting room with a couch and two armchairs, a coffee table and a flat screen TV. In an alcove to the left near the windows overlooking the preserve was a desk and office chair--perfect for studying, or at least for looking out the window while pretending to study.

He walked over to one of the doors leading off the sitting room and opened it to find a good sized bathroom tiled in crisp white, apart from a scattering of soft aqua feature tiles. The other door led to the bedroom, which featured a walk in closet and thick carpeting that Stiles kinda wanted to rub his face against. The bed linen was whisper-soft against his fingertips when he brushed a hand against it, and he guessed it was some ludicrous thread count. He circled slowly, taking in the room’s features--the discreet aircon, the massive chest of drawers, the occasional table and matching bedside lamps. Tucked away in the corner near the desk was a mini fridge.

Stiles had seen hotels that weren’t this nice.

He turned to find Peter leaning just inside the door, hands in his pockets, watching him. “To your satisfaction?” Peter asked, arching an eyebrow.

“It’s--wow.” Stiles spread his hands wide to show just how satisfactory it was, and Peter's expression turned pleased.

“When are you planning your move?” Peter asked.

“Um, I go back to school tomorrow, we only got today off for the medical, so it might have to be the weekend. I’ll need my Dad to help with the packing and lifting.”

“Why didn’t you just pack yesterday?”

“I didn’t want to jinx it?” Stiles ducked his head, almost embarrassed to admit it.

Peter sighed and shook his head. “No matter, we can still get you moved today if you want.”

“Yeah no, I’m not even close to ready.”

Peter gave him a look that clearly said he thought Stiles was an idiot. “You know, I don’t think you’ve grasped that you have a pack of wolves at your disposal. I’m an excellent packer, and I’ll co-opt Derek into helping. It will take us an hour at most to move your things. What do you say?”

And wow, yes, now this was all very real. “Can I think about it, check with my Dad?” he asked. He wasn’t _stalling,_ not exactly. He just needed a minute.

“Just let me know, and we’ll arrange it,” Peter said, then cocked his head. Stiles was reminded of a cocker spaniel—a potentially lethal cocker spaniel, but still. “If you’ll excuse me, Jackson’s here.”

And with that he was gone, leaving Stiles standing in the middle of his room—no, _suite_ —wondering what he was meant to do now. In the end, he did what anyone would do. He opened every drawer and cupboard, poked about in the walk in closet, and starfished on the bed. It was immensely comfortable, and the thought of moving in that night suddenly became far more attractive.

He stood and wandered out the door to see Peter walking up the stairs with a hand on the small of Jackson’s back, saying, “Don’t be so twitchy, sweetheart. I’m just getting you used to a werewolf’s touch. That, and I’m trying to replace the scent of horny, desperate teenager.”

Stiles felt slightly better that at least it wasn’t just him that Peter felt the need to belittle, and he grinned at the outraged sound Jackson made. “Hey, Jax,” he said, giving a lazy wave of his fingers as he headed downstairs.

He found Talia greeting Lydia and Isaac, who both had their bags already with them. Stiles wasn’t even surprised—Isaac was already much closer to the pack than the rest of them, and Lydia had never struck him as someone to doubt herself in the slightest—of course she’d already packed.

He walked outside and settled himself in the porch swing before calling his dad at work. “Should I move in tonight?” he blurted as soon as his father answered.

There was a moment of silence. “Are you ready to move in?”

Stiles bit his lip. “I mean I'm not packed if that’s what you mean, but Peter says they can help with that. Mentally though? Yeah, I think I am. But I didn't want to spring it on you.”

“Son, you’ve talked about nothing else for the past week. It’s hardly a shock that you want to take the next step.”

“So, you won’t pine?”

His dad laughed out loud. “Pine? Kid, I’m happy for you, and once you leave I’m gonna eat steak and drink beer and enjoy you not giving me disapproving looks for a change.” Stiles was about to object that it was _concern_ , thank you, when his dad added, “And even though you’re the pack’s responsibility now, if you ever need me, I’ll be there. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks, Dad.” Stiles’s voice cracked just the slightest bit.

They said their goodbyes and Stiles hit the end call button, then spent a few minutes just swaying gently, the porch swing creaking under him as he gazed out over the preserve. It was a gorgeous view, and he found it settled his nerves just to breathe in the fresh air and revel in the warm spring breeze.

He finally hauled himself to his feet and turned to go back in the house and find Talia, tell her he’d be moving in today after all.

* * *

Packing his shit via werewolf was a lot faster than Stiles had anticipated, and it definitely made for pleasant viewing, watching as Peter and Derek worked quickly and efficiently; packing boxes, lifting them like they weighed nothing, and carrying them downstairs, muscles flexing in a most attractive fashion.

Stiles could have watched all day, except Peter threw a crumpled hoodie at him and said waspishly, “You know, if you helped instead of drooling over Derek’s assets, we'd be done a lot sooner.” Stiles blushed and got back to work folding his laundry.

True to his word, Peter made sure they were done inside the hour, the jeep packed to the gills and the black SUV Peter was driving stacked with boxes as well. Stiles pulled the front door closed behind him and stood with his hands stuffed in his pockets for a minute, then blew out a long breath. “I guess that’s it.” He hesitated. “My dad’s welcome to come over, right?”

He half expected Peter to shoot him down, tell him he needed to cut old ties, but instead Stiles saw something like understanding flit over Peter’s face before he said, “Of course. He’s your pack, after all.”

“Oh,” Stiles said dumbly. “I guess he is,” unable to stop the grin from splitting his face upon hearing his dad described like that.

And then he got in the jeep and drove to his new home.

* * *

It was weirdly anticlimactic, settling into life with the pack.

Some things didn’t change at all. He continued to go to school, do his homework, loathe his chemistry teacher, hang out with his friends. He pretty much came and went as he pleased (as long as it wasn’t his night on the dishes roster), still saw his Dad. He even slept over at Scott’s one time and they spent the night playing video games and eating junk food, just like always.

There were definite adjustments, though. The touching, for one thing _._

 _So much touching_.

It turned out that Peter hadn’t been kidding about wolves being tactile. All the pack members had their own preferences, but they all without exception got their hands and scent over all the new pack members.

Talia, Michael and Laura were all straightforward huggers, although Talia would often ask his permission before rubbing cheeks with him, scenting him. Derek tended towards hair-scruffing or a hand slung around Stiles’s shoulder. Cora was fond of headlocks, but she’d also lean into Stiles’s side while they sat on the couch. Cousin Matt, who at fifteen was part way between awkward and adorable,had a habit of grabbing Stiles round the back, holding on tight for about four seconds, and then sidling away as if he’d never been there at all. Stiles loved all of it—he and his dad had always been huggers, but somehow pack hugs were different.

Peter, though, didn’t hug. Peter's touches tended to be small, delicate things that took Stiles by surprise every time. Despite their casualness, the feel of them always seemed to linger long after they were over—a thumb trailing across his bottom lip when there was a crumb there, warm hands gripping him lightly around his waist and moving him to the side when Peter wanted to get past him in the kitchen, fingers combing through his hair and tugging gently as Peter tutted that Stiles needed a haircut, surely he knew by now that he could afford some simple grooming?

That was the other thing that took some getting used to—having the resources of the pack at his disposal. Talia had informed him on his first day here that he’d be getting a weekly allowance so he could quit his after school job at the grocery store, because she'd prefer him to concentrate on his studies. It was a generous allowance, double what Stiles would normally earn in a good week, and it was thrilling and slightly scary all at once, depending on the pack like that. Stiles was sure he’d get used to it, given time. For now though, it was weird.

And despite Stiles knowing intellectually that the pack had serious money, a fact driven home by the fact that his dad had been paid a generous stipend upon Stiles’s acceptance into the pack, it genuinely didn’t occur to him that _he_ could access it, not until the day he had his jeep summarily confiscated and sent to the mechanic’s because Talia heard the way his brakes squealed. She gave him the keys to one of the pack vehicles to use without even blinking, and when he got the jeep back two days later it ran like new. It took him a day or two to get his head around the fact his car was fixed and his bank account wasn’t empty, but Stiles appreciated that Talia had noticed what he needed. He guessed that meant she really did see him as pack.

* * *

It was several weeks after his arrival when he stumbled down the stairs for school one morning and Peter took in the sight of him and sighed. “You look like an urchin. Go and buy some decent clothes for god’s sake, you’re making the pack look bad.”

Stiles grunted at him, not quite awake, and Peter gestured at Stiles with his coffee cup from where he was perched on a stool at the kitchen counter and ordered, “Derek, take Stiles out this afternoon and make him pretty.”

Derek looked up from his cereal and raised his eyebrow at his uncle. Peter had raised one in return, there was some sort of silent communication, and then Derek sighed and said, “Sure.”

“Do I get a say?” Stiles almost-whined, “I don’t remember it being in the contract that you got to play dress-ups with the selections.”

“Most selections don’t look like they’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards,” Peter said with a disapproving twist to his upper lip.

“Rude,” Stiles muttered.

Derek clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re better off going with me, trust me. If Peter takes you, you’ll be trying on twenty-three pairs of jeans to get the ones that sit _just right._ ” Stiles was utterly delighted by the air quotes Derek made, and Peter’s answering glare.

“That’s because you were an argumentative teenager. If you’d tried the pairs I chose you in the first place we would have taken no time at all,” Peter said with a sniff.

“If he has such terrible taste then how come he’s dressing me?” Stiles said.

He immediately regretted it when Derek said, ”He has a point. Why don’t _you_ take him, Uncle Peter?”

Peter looked from Derek to Stiles, and a slow smile spread across his face that was almost predatory. “I suppose I could find time. We’ll go this afternoon, and I’ll introduce you to the concept of properly fitted clothing.”

“Have fun, Stiles,” Derek said with a smirk, and Stiles just knew he was laughing at him—Derek, Stiles was learning rapidly, wasn’t nearly as buttoned down as his resting bitch face suggested.

“Just so you know, I feel my taste is being judged here,” Stiles grumbled.

“That would require you to have any taste to begin with,” Peter said, and then he took his coffee cup and walked out of the kitchen before Stiles had time to think of a witty reply.

* * *

Stiles was forced to readjust his attitude to the whole thing after he tried bitching about it to Lydia over lunch. She looked him up and down, assessing, pointed at him with the spoon from her yogurt and said, “Peter’s not wrong. You do look a little rough around the edges. And he does have excellent taste. Perhaps you should be grateful that he’s taking time out of his day for you. I don’t see him taking me or Jackson or Isaac for a makeover.”

“That’s because we don’t need it,” Jackson chimed in, grinning.

Lydia elbowed Jackson sharply in the ribs, which saved Stiles the trouble of doing it himself. But then she told Stiles plainly, “ Don’t upset the left hand, Stiles. If Peter wants to dress you, let him. That man never does anything without good reason.”

That gave Stiles pause. Lydia was right—Peter didn’t do things like this just for the hell of it. Besides, it wasn’t like Peter was forcing him into anything sketchy. It was just clothes.

Maybe, Stiles reflected, he was just salty because Peter had called him out on the fact that he actually did need to go shopping. In truth he’d been putting off asking, still somewhat shy about asking for money. Trust Peter to notice. Still, that was his job, Stiles supposed, to keep an eye on the pack.

Peter was waiting with his car keys in hand when Stiles bounced in the door from school, but Stiles held up a palm. “I gotta shower first—nobody deserves after-school armpits, not when we’re trying on clothes.”

Peter gave what might have been an approving nod. “Sensible _and_ considerate. Perhaps you’re not a total heathen.”

“Wow, thanks for the stellar compliment,” Stiles muttered as he walked up the stairs.

“You’re welcome,” Peter called after him, “and hurry up. My schedule doesn’t include you dawdling.”

Stiles bit back a response and headed for the bathroom. He showered quickly, determined not to give Peter the satisfaction of complaining about having to wait. It was less than ten minutes before he was dressed and back downstairs, and Peter seemed grudgingly impressed.

They didn’t take the SUV. Instead, Peter led Stiles to a garage around the back of the house. Stiles gasped when Peter opened the door to reveal a sleek sports car. “Is that a _Cobra_?”

“I thought you might like it,” Peter said, visibly smug. “Wipe your feet when you get in.”

Stiles didn’t even think of disobeying. It would be sacrilege to get dirt in a car like that. He settled into his seat and wiggled his ass a little, letting out a happy sigh.

Peter grinned like a shark, said, ”Buckle up, sweetheart,” and then they were off.

* * *

Peter was a ruthlessly efficient shopper, looking Stiles up and down, humming under his breath, and then grabbing a variety of shirts, jeans, and tees. “These will do to start with,” he said, loading Stiles’s arms up and steering him towards the fitting room with a hand at his waist.

“Don’t I get to make any choices?”

Peter tugged at the hem of Stiles’s admittedly ratty plaid shirt. “Your former choices speak for themselves, so no.”

“Rude,” Stiles muttered under his breath.

Peter didn’t bother to respond, just giving him a final light push that propelled him into the fitting room. Stiles pulled the curtains shut with more force than was warranted just so he didn’t have to see Peter's smug attractive face, and then he started to work his way through the pile, starting with the jeans Peter had selected.

Five minutes later, Stiles was forced to admit that although he was a dick, Peter was an _excellent_ shopper. He turned once more and checked out the way the denim molded to his ass, grinning at the sight.

He pulled on one of the tees—a vee neck, he noted, because of course it was—and stepped out of the change room. “So?”

Peter looked him up and down, slow and deliberate, before he gave a nod. “Yes. Very nice, sweetheart.”

Stiles was quietly pleased at earning Peter’s approval, and he allowed himself a moment to admire himself in the mirror once more before he shucked out of the clothes and tried on the next lot which also fitted like they were made for him, earning an actual smile from Peter.

He worked his way through the pile and it didn't take as long as he’d thought, because once he tried an item on and determined the cut was right, Peter would simply signal the sales assistant and ask them to fetch it in multiple colors. In less than an hour Stiles was shimmying his way into the last pair of skinny jeans, ones that were tighter than his previous pairs. He pulled the curtain aside, feeling distinctly exposed. “I really think these are too tight.”

Peter’s eyes widened just a fraction at the way the fabric outlined all of Stiles's assets, and then he made a spinning motion with his finger. Stiles turned, squirming under Peter’s intense gaze. “They’re perfect, sweetheart.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow in disbelief, and Peter stood and took his arm, resting his hand under Stiles’s elbow, and led him to stand in front of the mirror. “Look properly. They fit you _here_ ,” a hand brushed down the front of his thigh, ”and _here_ ,” two hands spanned his waist, squeezing gently, “and _here_.” Peter patted his ass. “They’re divine, and you look divine wearing them.”

Stiles felt a rush of warmth at Peter’s casual touches and the compliment. He swallowed and said, “Yeah,” sounding slightly breathless to his own ears, “they do look good.”

“Excellent.” Peter gave his ass another pat. “Get dressed and we’ll head home.”

“Wait, we’re done?” Stiles couldn’t hide his surprise.

Peter raised an eyebrow. “You needed new clothes. You have new clothes. Was there something else you needed?”

“I half expected you to drag me around and make me try on suits,” Stiles admitted.

Peter’s eyebrow climbed higher. “You thought I wanted to play out some sort of pretty woman fantasy?”

“Please, where would we even get a piano?” Stiles blurted out before he could stop himself.

Peter stared at him for a moment, and then he _smiled_ , and it wasn’t the serial-killer-car-salesman one either, but something more genuine. It looked good on him, and Stiles grinned back. “We do actually have time if you wanted to look at something more formal, but I didn't think it was your style,” Peter said.

It was then that Stiles realized that all of the items Peter had chosen were good, solid basics. Black shirts, blue jeans, plain tees in muted colors—there wasn’t anything here that Stiles wouldn’t wear on a daily basis. Peter really had put a lot of thought into his choices, and Stiles found it oddly considerate that Peter hadn’t tried to make him stand out in a crowd.

Still, Stiles could have sworn he detected a hopeful note in Peter's voice just now. “Maybe I could try a couple of things,” he decided, and Peter’s smile widened.

“Excellent,” he said, stepping back out of the changing room. “Wait right here.”

If Stiles didn’t know better, he’d swear Peter had already made his selections, because he was back in next to no time with several dress shirts and some matching pants. Stiles tried them on and Peter didn’t even ask, just declared, “We’re taking them all.”

Peter paid while Stiles dressed, and looking at himself in his old clothes after trying on the new ones, it was painfully clear that he really did need the upgrade. He meandered out to the till and said, “Um, thanks for this.”

“Trust me, it was my pleasure,” Peter said. “Now my senses won’t have to be assaulted by an obscenity of plaid.”

“I don’t think that’s the plural for plaid,” Stiles said drily. He probably should have been offended, but he found himself smiling instead.

Peter handed him several bags and as they started the walk back to the car, he said lightly, “Now at least you’ll look respectable when you start going on dates.”

Stiles stopped in his tracks. “Dates? Since when am I going on dates? It’s not mandatory, I read the-- ”

Peter raised a hand. “Of course it’s not mandatory. But you must have noticed the way Matty looks at you. He’s gathering the nerve to ask you out. I assume you wouldn't be so heartless as to turn down a fifteen year old boy on his first foray into romance?”

Stiles tried to imagine saying no to a date with Matty. It would be like kicking a puppy. “Of course not. But he’s still a kid.”

“He’s two years younger than you, and that’s really not the point,” Peter said. “He’s attracted to someone for the first time, and I’d like to think you’d make it a positive experience for him.” Stiles was struck once again by how protective Peter was over his pack.

“If he asks, I’ll say yes.”

“Excellent. He already has plans.”

On hearing that, there was a moment where Stiles felt like he was being steered into something he hadn't quite agreed to, but he shook it off. It was nothing, just a fifteen year old being enthusiastic, that’s all. “So where are we going? Do I need to practice looking thrilled?”

Peter’s lip curled in distaste. “Apparently the date involves burgers and then some action movie involving zombies.”

Stiles grinned. “That actually sounds awesome. Why the face, though? It’s not like you have to go.”

Peter’s lips thinned and he said, “Sadly, I do. I’m the chaperone.”

Stiles laughed all the way back to the car.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles starts dating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still Sunday somewhere? Apologies, I'm a few hours later than I'd planned, but I got there in the end.

It was the next evening while they were on dish duty that Matt too-casually asked Stiles if he was free on the weekend.

“Sure, once I get my homework done,” Stile said with a shrug, and waited.

“So, there’s this movie, Zombie Swarm.” Matt polished the glass in his hand hard enough that Stiles feared for its structural integrity. “Wanna go see it with me?”

“Sounds cool.” Stiles fished in the bottom of the sink for cutlery. Talia had a no-dishwasher policy, something to do with bonding over chores. He had to admit she probably had a point, given the conversation he was currently having.

“And, uh, wanna get dinner first?” Matt added, his expression hopeful.

Not wanting Matt to suspect that Peter had given him a heads up, Stiles waited a beat before he asked, “What, as packmates?”

“I was thinking more like a date,” Matt said, squaring his shoulders and jutting his chin out with a confidence he probably didn’t feel. He was already Hale-hot, and his determination just added to that. He had an air of assurance that reminded Stiles of Peter, without the added serving of asshole.

Stiles knew Matt was nervous so he didn’t make him wait. “I’d like that.”

Matt gave a huge grin. “Is Saturday night okay for you? Uncle Peter can chaperone us, and we could go to that new burger place.”

Stiles grinned back. “Zombies and burgers? Sounds cool. Peter will hate it,” which earned him a laugh.

* * *

Talia called him into her office later that evening, and for a hot second Stiles was worried he’d done something wrong, but Talia’s smile put him at ease. “Relax, Stiles. I just wanted to remind you there’s no obligation to date any of the pack. You weren’t pressured at all were you?”

In truth, Stiles had lain awake last night wondering if he _was_ getting pushed into this, but then he’d thought about it objectively. Teenage awkwardness aside, Matt was someone whose company he enjoyed. He was clever, something of a smartass once he relaxed, and stupidly good looking—exactly Stiles’s type in other words. And two years wasn’t _that_ much of an age gap. Besides, even if this didn't go anywhere, it could be a fun night out.

So he felt confident when he assured Talia, “No, it’s all good. I mean Peter might have heavily implied I'd be a monster to say no to Matt, but that's just, y’know, Peter.”

“Peter’s naturally protective of the pack, and he’s very fond of Matt.”

“Yeah, I get it. Left Hand, it’s his job to be vaguely threatening at all times. He didn't threaten me about this, though. I really like Matt.”

Talia’s lips quirked in a barely suppressed smile. “I’m glad to hear it. And I’ll be interested to see how long it takes for other pack members to put a claim on your time now Matt’s opened the floodgates, so to speak.”

Stiles blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Talia looked positively entertained at his confusion. “They've been waiting for you to settle in, but I know for a fact there are several pack members who’d like to get to know you better.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Not Jackson? He’s the pretty gay,” he said before he could stop himself.

Talia arched a brow at him. “Don't pretend you’re unaware of your own appeal, Stiles.”

Stiles squirmed at being called out like that—self-deprecation had always been his go-to, but apparently it didn’t work on werewolves. “Okay, fair. But Jackson _is_ pretty, so the question stands.”

“Jackson is also unavailable. He’s asked for the bite, after checking that he’d be permitted to date Lydia once he’s been turned,” she said with a wry smile.

“Wow. That’s—isn't it kind of cheating, taking out two of your selections? Can he even do that?” Stiles had to admit, he admired the balls on Jackson for trying a stunt like that.

“Of course he can. I keep telling you, any relationship undertaken by a selection in this pack is their own business. Jackson and Lydia are part of the pack, and they’ll make a fine couple.” She seemed genuinely pleased for them, Stiles noted.

He ran a hand through his hair, still coming to terms with the news that other pack members wanted to date him. It was kind of flattering honestly, but he felt the need to clarify with Talia. “I don’t wanna…” he searched for the words, “I don’t want Matt’s toes to get trod on just because he’s young, you know?”

Talia nodded and said, “Of course not. Traditional dating protocol applies. Go on your date, see if you enjoy it enough for a second one, take it from there.”

“And if I don’t want a second one? Peter won't take me out back and bury me in a shallow grave for breaking Matt's heart?” Stiles was only half joking.

Talia's expression was pure mischief when she said, “There’s no danger of that. Peter assures me his graves are always regulation depth.”

It was such a ridiculous statement that Stiles burst out laughing. Talia joined him, and when he left her office a few minutes later with an invitation to let her know if he had any more questions, he felt a lot more settled about the whole thing.

When he went to bed that night, he was still quietly preening about the fact that apparently, he was considered a werewolf snack.

* * *

The date was fun, even if it turned out it wasn't exactly a date.

The burger place lived up to its reputation with thick, juicy burgers with exactly the right amount of hot-salt-fat, and when Stiles caught himself licking the juices from his chin at the same time as Matt, they shared a look and giggled like schoolchildren. Technically they both were, Stiles supposed—at least for another month or so.

Peter just sighed and handed them both a napkin and then went back to eating his own burger, somehow managing to make no mess at all. He was a perfect chaperone, actually. He left them to their devices and didn’t try and cut into their conversation at all, was just an undeniable supervisory presence. Stiles didn’t actually think he needed a chaperone with Matty, but the rules were clear—dates were to be supervised, to eliminate the possibility of werewolf strength being used against an unwilling selection.

It also meant that they had an extra pair of arms to carry the snacks when they got to the movies, and Matt and Stiles didn’t hesitate to load Peter up with jumbo popcorns, giant cold sodas, and an array of candy bars. “You _just ate_ ,” he grumbled, mouth pinched in disapproval.

“I’m a growing wolf,” Matt said, grinning.

Peter just rolled his eyes as they lined up for their tickets. When they got to the front of the line the ticket-seller pointed to Matt. “You seventeen?”

A silent look passed between Peter and Matt before Peter stepped forward and said, “I’m the accompanying adult,” and as he paid for three tickets with no further fuss, it suddenly all fell into place for Stiles.

Zombie Swarm had a restricted rating, and Stiles was pretty sure Matt wouldn’t have been allowed to go on his own. As a date though? That was different. He nudged Matt gently with an elbow and said under his breath, “Did you really want a date, or am I just your zombie movie beard?”

Matt stiffened, blushing and ducking his head. “Can it be both? I mean I like you, but I also like zombies.”

Stiles huffed out a laugh. “Sure. Love and monsters. A great combination, right?”

“Right.” Matt lost some of the tenseness from his shoulders and wrapped an arm affectionately around Stiles’s waist. “Let’s go see if this thing is as bloody as they say.”

Peter watched them with a smirk on his face, a smug little thing that made Stiles suspect that he was behind the entire idea. In all honesty, it was kind of a genius move—the sort of thing Stiles might have tried himself when he was fifteen, except being the sheriff’s kid had made him far too visible. And looking at the broad smile lighting up Matt’s face, Stiles found he wasn't even slightly mad about it.

* * *

The movie was exactly as terribly-slash-awesome as Stiles had heard. He and Matt groaned at bad dialogue, jumped out of their seats and then cackled when some poor soul had his head ripped off and used as a bowling ball, and stuffed their faces with junk food. Peter sat next to them, and far from sulking into his popcorn like Stiles had half-expected, he joined them in their decimation of the film’s special effects, making not-at-all-disturbing comments like, “Please, that’s not even _close_ to a real arterial bloodspray pattern. Is a little research too much to ask?”

Halfway into the movie Stiles noted that Peter hadn’t bothered getting anything for himself from the snack bar, and since he and Matt really had gone overboard he reached over and pressed a pack of Reese's into Peter’s open palm. Peter started a little, having been watching the screen, and he examined the package carefully. “For me?”

Stiles shrugged. “I figure if you’re spending your night as a third wheel, you at least deserve free candy.”

Stiles half expected some crack about taking candy from strangers and white vans, but the smile Peter gave him was genuine, as was his quiet, “Thank you,” when he slipped the package into his pocket.

Soon enough the movie was over, Matt and Stiles laughing and half-arguing the entire way home over what they thought the best bits were. When they got back to the house Peter parked the car and as they got out he declared, “I swear, if you two expect me to chaperone you again, I’m going to make you heathens go somewhere civilized—an art gallery, perhaps. Assuming there is a second date?”

He leaned against the side of the car, arms folded over his chest, and watched the pair of them with a raised eyebrow.

Stiles pulled up short at that—he’d almost forgotten this was meant to be a date.

So had Matty, if the way his eyes went wide was anything to go by. “Do you want a second date?” he asked Stiles, his voice going high at the end.

“Um.” They’d had fun, but it had been brother-level fun. Stiles had no desire to take it further. He was still trying to think of a polite way to say no when Matty cleared his throat and said, “I—can I just check something?” Stiles nodded and Matty swallowed hard, leaned in close, and pressed their lips together clumsily.

It was like that one time Stiles had kissed Scott when they were ten, just to see what would happen—there was nothing there at all. Matty’s brows drew together and Stiles could tell he was working up the nerve to try again, so to save them standing there all night, Stiles leaned in and kissed him first. The second time was just as underwhelming, and it was obvious from Matty's expression that he felt the same. He ducked his head shyly and said, “Maybe next time we’ll just go as friends?”

“Sounds good. Unless there’s another zombie flick you wanna see, in which case I might be willing to give you a second chance,” Stiles teased, quietly relieved that this wasn’t going to get awkward.

Matty gave Stiles one of those Hale boy sunshine smiles that lit up his entire face, and Stiles got the feeling the relief went both ways.

“Such a shame, you made a lovely couple,” Peter smirked, like he hadn’t been behind the whole thing. He fixed Stiles with a look. “Not a word to Talia about the film,” he warned.

“I don’t know what you’re referring to. I don’t even remember what we saw,” Stiles said, straight-faced.

“Excellent,” Peter said. “Now shall we go in?”

It was unexpected when he hooked an elbow through Stiles’s and escorted him to the door, but Stiles didn’t think too hard about it, because it was Peter. Doing odd things was almost his stock in trade.

* * *

Cora was courting Isaac.

Isaac was slightly broken when it came to relationships and slow to trust, a hangover from his upbringing, and Cora was brash and bold and forthright—everything he wasn’t. Watching her try and carefully tread her way into his affections like she was navigating through bear traps was exquisitely frustrating. It had been going on for weeks, and it was the slowest moving romance Stiles had ever seen. Jane Austen had nothing on these two.

Isaac knew he was being wooed of course, because he wasn’t stupid, but he played dumb as Cora brought him snacks and small gifts, offered to drive him to school, asked for help with her homework so they could sit together at the long table hunched over their laptops. Sometimes Cora’s fingertips would brush Isaac's.

It was like watching paint dry.

“Are you even interested?” Stiles asked Isaac one afternoon as they sprawled over the lounge playing Mario Kart, after Cora had gone to fetch Isaac a sandwich when he’d mentioned he was hungry. She hadn't offered to make Stiles one.

Isaac’s mouth quirked. “Of course I am. But don’t tell her, I’m making her work for it.”

“Nice. The thing about werewolves is they get everything far too easily,” Stiles mused quietly—not quietly enough, apparently.

“The other thing about werewolves is that we have such incredible hearing,'' said a voice right behind them, and Stiles jumped about a foot in the air and promptly ran his cart off the road.

Peter smirked as he plopped down into an armchair across from them. “Do you think Cora will ask you out soon, Isaac?”

Isaac scrambled to sit up, game forgotten. “Yeah, I think so.”

“And you’ll graciously accept of course, and make her day.”

Isaac nodded and Peter grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners like he was enjoying himself. It made Stiles bristle, the thought that Peter was winding Isaac up just to be a dick.

“Wow, you sure are interested in everyone’s love life for a single guy,” he interrupted, ignoring Isaac’s elbow in his ribs.

Peter tilted his head and looked him up and down. “Funny, I was just going to say the exact same thing about you. Weren’t you asking Isaac the same question?”

“Yeah, but I’m asking as his friend. You’re just interrogating him, like you’re the selection dating police.”

The elbow dug in harder this time and Isaac glared at him. _“Stiles, shut up!_ ”

“What? He is!”

Isaac grabbed the collar of Stiles’s shirt and pulled him close to hiss in his ear, “No, he’s _helping_ me.” He kept one eye fixed on the hallway leading to the kitchen as he watched for Cora’s return.

Stiles pulled back. “He’s—how exactly?” He looked between Peter and Isaac and didn’t miss the eyeroll they exchanged. “What am I missing?”

Peter let out an exaggerated sigh. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I know my niece, I know how her mind works. Isaac likes Cora, so he came to me for advice on what to do, and I suggested that he should let her chase him until he catches her.”

“You mean until she catches him,” Stiles corrected.

Peter raised an eyebrow at him and waited, and Stiles ran through what he’d just said. His mouth dropped open when the penny dropped.

 _“Ohhhh._ He’s--so she can--and think she’s— “

“Eloquent as always,” Peter said drily, “and yes. There's a part of Cora that’s always loved a challenge. Isaac’s cluelessness is making her think carefully, plan ahead instead of rushing in. And when she does finally ask him, he’ll know she’s sincere, precisely because she took the time she did, and she’ll appreciate a prize that’s hard-won.”

“That’s kind of brilliant,” Stiles was forced to admit. “Brilliant but pointless. I mean, they could just ask each other out like normal people.”

Peter sighed. “You have no romance in your soul, Stiles. It’s the anticipation that enriches the experience. Haven’t you heard that hunger is the best sauce?”

“Speaking of hunger,” Stiles said as his stomach gave a growl, “I guess I have to make my own lunch, since Cora doesn’t care about impressing _me_.”

Peter hummed. “Roast beef with mustard?”

It took a second for the question to register. “What?”

“Would you like a roast beef and mustard sandwich?” Peter enunciated slowly, and Stiles sort of wanted to punch him for being such a condescending fuck, but he also really wanted a sandwich. Peter made a show of looking at his watch. “Offer expires in thirty seconds. Yes or no?”

“Please,” Stiles said quickly.

Peter gave a smirk.“Nice to see you’re developing some manners, sweetheart,” he said lightly, and then he was gone.

Stiles ignored the shiver he felt at _sweetheart,_ fairly certain by now that Peter only called him that because he knew it made Stiles squirm.

Peter and Cora reappeared a few minutes later, both carrying a platter of sandwiches, and Stiles shuffled over to make room for Peter next to him on the couch, the platter balanced between them. 

Peter might be an asshole, Stiles decided, but he made a mean roast beef sandwich.

* * *

Saturdays were Stiles’s favorite day at the pack house.

Prior to joining the pack, his weekends consisted of laundry and homework and working at the grocery store. Now though? Saturdays and Sundays at the Hale house were a glorious sort of organized chaos, a swarm of noise and bodies and activity with most pack members dropping in at least once over the weekend. Saturdays were Stiles’s favorite mainly because there was always a pack meal on Saturday night, and at Talia's invitation Stiles's dad had started joining them, along with Lydia and Jackson's parents.

It always made Stiles’s day, the way the corners of his dad’s eyes creased in a smile at seeing him, right before he dragged Stiles into one of his patented big Stilinski hugs. No matter how much he liked being part of the pack, his dad would always be his dad, and Stiles would always be glad to see him.

There were other pack members he liked catching up with, for entirely different reasons. Take Talia’s oldest son, Paul.

Stiles liked Paul. He was a nice guy, and Stiles didn’t mean that in the derogatory internet way. He was genuinely decent, not to mention tall and tan and lean-muscled, with dark scruff that had the barest traces of silver in it, and lush, dark hair that looked perfect for tangling hands in for kissing—okay _fine_ , maybe he was a total fox and maybe Stiles lusted after him the tiniest bit and had jerked off to thoughts of him once or twice. Stiles was a healthy not-quite-eighteen year old with eyes and a libido. He was allowed to look.

This particular Saturday evening, about three weeks after Stiles’s not-date with Matty, Paul eased into the chair next to his at the dinner table. “Hey, Stiles. How’s it going?”

God, he had a voice that Stiles wanted to lick, and he was aware that made no sense, but it didn’t stop the thrill that ran down his spine every time he heard it. “Hey, Paul.” He hoped Paul hadn’t noticed the way his voice hitched.

Paul slung one arm casually across the back of Stiles’s chair and then reached out with his other hand and tilted Stiles’s head to one side, exposing a stretch of neck. He grazed the back of his hand down Stiles's bare skin, warm and soft. It was just scenting, Stiles knew, but it didn’t _feel_ like scenting. Paul let his hand rest against Stiles’s cheek, leaning in and breathing in deeply, and then he dragged the tip of his thumb slowly across Stiles’s bottom lip. “You’ve got a pretty mouth, Stiles,” he murmured. “Go out with me?”

Stiles swallowed hard. “Yeah, um, yes please,” he said, head spinning. Paul’s mouth curled up in a pleased smile, and Stiles was helpless to stop himself grinning in return. This must be who Talia had been talking about when she said there were other pack members interested. Paul’s hand came to rest against Stiles’s cheek, and it felt shockingly intimate.

Stiles leaned into the touch and let himself enjoy what was possibly a perfect moment--a perfect moment ruined by Peter’s acid tones. “If you’ve finished drooling over a minor, Paul, perhaps you could help your brothers bring the food out?”

The tips of Stiles’s ears burned when he realized everyone at the table was watching them. He went to pull away, but Paul’s other hand came up and both palms cradled his face. Stiles couldn’t have moved if he wanted to. Not that he wanted to. “Fuck off, Uncle Peter,” Paul said easily. “Stiles is eighteen in two weeks.”

Derek made a choked noise sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

“It’s two weeks and four days actually,” Peter retorted. “And you still need to help with dinner.”

Paul removed his hands and Stiles missed them immediately. Then he stood, leaned down and dropped a soft kiss on Stiles’s forehead, saying, “Back soon beautiful, and then we’ll arrange that date,” and leaving Stiles flushed and grinning all through the rest of dinner.

* * *

Paul barely left Stiles's side all evening. He pressed up close to him on the couch, his arm slung over Stiles’s shoulders, fingers tangled together as they talked, and he nuzzled at Stiles’s hairline in a blatant show of scenting. They arranged a date for the following Friday night at a nice Italian restaurant.

“We’ll have to find you a chaperone,” Talia declared. “I’ll be busy with Isaac and Cora.”

Stiles was momentarily distracted from Paul’s fingers running up the nape of his neck. “Oh my god, she finally asked?”

“While they were drying the dishes,“ Talia confirmed, eyes sparkling.

Stiles wondered idly how many romances had started over the Hales’ kitchen sink. “We can make it another night if we need to?” he said, even though that was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Nonsense,” Talia said. ”Paul already waited to ask. It's fine. Peter can supervise.”

At the mention of his name Peter turned where he was standing at the long built-in bar that ran half the length of the family room, glass of wine in one hand. “Sadly, I believe I’m busy that night.”

“The Buffy marathon you were planning with Derek doesn’t count as busy,” Talia said firmly. “You’re going.” Talia’s tone left no doubt that Peter’s Friday night plans now included getting up close and personal with all things tomato, basil and garlic based.

“Fine,” Peter sighed, and drained his glass in a single swallow. Stiles could have sworn he pouted.

With that, Paul said, “I’d better get going, Mom,” and hauled himself to his feet, extending a hand to Stiles to help him up, which meant Stiles got to watch the way Paul’s muscled forearms flexed enticingly. Paul let go of Stiles to hug and scent Talia the rest of the pack, sharing hugs and cheek-rubs and farewells before he left.

Stiles waited by the door until he was done, and said, “So, see you Friday?”

Paul’s hands wrapped around Stiles’s waist in a warm grip and he tugged him close, leaving mere inches between them. Stiles went willingly, and this close he could see that Paul’s eyes weren’t completely blue like he’d thought, but flecked with grey. Paul's breath was warm against his throat as Paul scented him and then murmured in Stiles’s ear, “Can’t wait, gorgeous.”

And then, with a kiss to Stiles’s forehead, he was gone.

Stiles couldn't keep the smile off his face for the rest of the evening. He was pretty sure he looked like a fool, but he didn’t care.

He had a hot date, and Paul had called him gorgeous. 


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles drummed his fingers against the wooden surface of the bar at the restaurant where he and Peter were waiting for Paul. Peter huffed impatiently. “Stop fidgeting, Stiles. You’re quite ruining my enjoyment of this lovely merlot.”

“Sorry.” He checked his watch. “How long does a flat tire take to change, anyway?”

“I’d think you’d be familiar with the timeframe for all sorts of repairs, given that rustbucket you drive,” Peter said with a sniff.

“Hey! Roscoe runs fine!”

 _“Now_ it does, yes,” Peter said, swirling his wine around in the bottom of the glass like the pretentious fuck that he was before setting it on the bar. “It’s still past its use-by date. And don’t try and feed me the lie that you’ve kept it because it was your mother’s. You've kept it because you didn’t want to burden your father with the expense of replacing it.”

Stiles hated that Peter was right - Fuck Left Hands who were far too good at figuring shit out. “So what, I’m a bad son for sparing my dad’s feelings?” he bristled.

“Not at all. Your relationship with your father is admirable, actually. But now that money’s not an issue, let me know when you’re ready for an upgrade and we’ll go shopping.”

“What?” This wasn’t something Stiles was expecting to discuss while waiting for his dinner date, so it caught him unawares.

Peter took in Stiles’s stunned look and rolled his eyes. “This can’t be unexpected. Lydia and Jackson have both upgraded their vehicles. I assumed you'd want to upgrade yours.”

Stiles flushed. Peter wasn’t wrong, but still. “You can’t just casually offer someone a car like you’re Oprah,” he said. “It’s not normal to be ‘y _ou_ get a car _,_ and _you_ get a car, you _all get a car!”_ He waved an arm to imitate the TV host, and in a feat of clumsiness that even for him was a new low, managed to sweep Peter’s glass from where he’d placed it on the bar and spill red wine.

All over himself.

It hit his chest and soaked into the pristine white shirt he was wearing, and Stiles let out a high-pitched “Fuck!” as it ran down him, leaving vivid streaks of red and spreading like a disease.

Peter was quick to grab a handful of napkins off the bar and dab them against the stain, stopping the spread, but the damage was done. “Fuck!” Stiles repeated, flapping his arms frantically. ‘I look like a murder victim! What am I going to do!?”

Peter glanced at his watch, then put both hands on Stiles’s shoulders for a second, head tilted as he hummed. “Yes,” he decided, “it’ll work.” He grabbed Stiles by the hand and dragged him into the bathrooms at the restaurant. It was one of those places that was fancy enough to have a side area with a couple of armchairs, which Stiles had never understood the need for, but he was immensely grateful that he didn’t have to deal with this in front of the urinal. Peter pulled him into the sitting room and said, “Shirt off.” Stiles didn’t argue, thinking that maybe Peter knew a secret red-wine disappearing trick--it seemed like the sort of thing Peter would know--and that he planned to perform some miracle and then dry his shirt under the hand dryer.

Stiles pulled his tie off and wrestled out of the wet shirt, eyes temporarily covered by the fabric, and when his head emerged he was greeted by the sight of Peter's naked chest.

Peter's _very attractive_ naked chest. It was tan and muscled with a decent amount of hair, and even given the circumstances, Stiles took a moment to appreciate the view because Peter might be a dick, but Stiles wasn’t _blind._ His attention snapped back to Peter’s face when the man cleared his throat and held out his own burgundy shirt, and Stiles realized he’d been openly staring.

Peter didn’t mention it though, just shook his shirt at Stiles impatiently. “It’s not perfect, but it’s passable,” he said, “unless you want to either sit there drenched in wine or cancel the date?”

No, Stiles definitely did not want to cancel the date. He’d been waiting all week for this. He only hesitated a moment before he took the shirt and pulled it over his head. It was still warm from Peter’s body, and Stiles shuddered at the heat against his own cool skin. It was a touch on the large side because Peter was a stockier build than he was, but overall it worked. “It fits better than I thought.” He handed his wine soaked disaster over.

Peter looked slightly horrified, dangling the offending article from a fingertip. “Please. I’m not spending the evening in a _wet shirt_.”

“But what _will_ you wear?” Not that he’d put it past Peter to sit in the middle of a restaurant shirtless, but that chest hair had to breach all kinds of food safety regulations.

Stiles honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if Peter had turned out to have wardrobe change in the trunk of his car in case of messy murders or other less-than-legal activities, but Peter just shrugged back into the cardigan he’d been wearing over his shirt and buttoned it up. “This will do. I’m decent at least.” He pushed the sleeves up to his elbows and spread his arms wide, and Stiles nearly swallowed his tongue as he took in the full effect.

 _Decent_ wasn’t the word Stiles would use to describe how Peter looked right now. The wool of the cardigan clung to his muscles in interesting and obscene ways, and he was one deep breath away from popping all the buttons. The vee at the front was so deep that Stiles was struck with an urge to stuff dollar bills down it and ask for a lap dance. “Wow. You look…”

“I’m aware it’s not exactly up to the dress code, but Paul will be here soon,” Peter said briskly. He stepped closer to Stiles and popped the collar on his shirt, then picked up Stiles’s tie from where it was strewn over the back of one of the armchairs. He slipped it over his head and knotted it, adjusting the collar so it sat just right, then slid warm hands down Stiles’s back and inside the waist of his dress pants, there and gone again in seconds as Peter tucked his shirt in expertly. He stepped back and cast a critical eye. “Acceptable,” he decided, turning Stiles with a hand on his hip so he was facing a mirror. “What do you think?”

The hand lingered as Stiles looked himself up and down. The outfit worked, the burgundy shirt matching his charcoal pants and black tie nicely. “Yeah, it's good. Thank you,” he said, and meant it.

“You shall go to the ball,Cinderella,” Peter said with a wry quirk of his lips. “Come on, we don’t want to keep Prince Charming waiting.” His hand left Stiles’s hip, but Stiles could still feel where the heat of it had soaked into his skin.

As he followed Peter to the door he said, “If I’m Cinderella what does that make you?”

“Oh, I'm definitely the fairy godfather,” Peter said lightly, “here to solve all your problems. And just in time too,” he added, nodding over to where Paul was standing at the hostess station, obviously scanning the restaurant for them.

Stiles couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he approached. “Hey, you made it!”

Paul’s face lit up. “Stiles! Sorry I’m late.” he held out grease and dirt smeared palms. Lemme just go wash my hands and I’ll be back.” He leaned in to scent Stiles and froze, brows tugging down in confusion as the smile fled his face and he scowled. “Why do you smell like Peter right now?” he demanded.

Shit. Stiles hadn’t considered that the shirt he was wearing was probably drenched in Peter’s scent. “I spilled wine on my shirt, and Peter loaned me his so we didn’t have to cancel,” he said, and hoped he hadn’t broken some ancient werewolf law or something.

Paul’s face did something complicated at that. “How very selfless of him.”

“Thank you nephew, I thought so,” Peter said, wandering over from wherever he'd disappeared to, sans the stained shirt that he’d still been holding.

Paul looked Peter up and down, opened his mouth to say something, and obviously thought better of it, settling on, “Back in a minute. Hands.” He made a beeline for the bathroom.

“Is he pissed?” Stiles bit his lip. “He seems pissed. Should we have canceled?”

Peter chuckled. “It’s fine, Stiles. Paul just needs a moment to pull his wolf into line, that’s all. It’s jealous.”

“Of your scent?” Stiles hazarded a guess.

“Of my scent,” Peter agreed, “which is frankly ludicrous, since I have zero interest in you.”

“Wow, way to feed my ego,” Stiles muttered, still worried he’d fucked his date up.

“Does it need feeding? Would you feel better if I wooed you with false declarations of intent?” Peter leaned in close and took Stiles’s hand between his own. “I like you, Stiles. I’ve always liked you.” His voice dropped half an octave. ”I’d love to make you mine.” The richness and warmth of Peter’s voice made Stiles squirm, and it wasn’t entirely from embarrassment.

Which of course was exactly when Paul came back. _“What the hell, Peter?_ Are you hitting on my date?” He was breathing hard, and the back of Stiles's chair creaked with how hard Paul was gripping it.

Peter leaned back and flashed Paul a smile. “Not at all. I was just explaining that your wolf has a case of green eyes at my scent, and demonstrating how exactly I’d woo him, if I was at all interested.”

Paul was still tense, hands still clenched on the back of Stiles’ chair, so Stiles tilted his head back, looked him in the eye and said, “Believe me, I’m here for you, not Tits McGee over there.”

 _“Tits McGee?”_ Peter’s mouth dropped open in outrage as Paul snorted.

“Your stripper name,” Stiles said easily. “Let’s face it, that’s an impressive rack.” Paul stopped hovering over him and sat next to him instead, which had sort of been the point, and his scowl dissolved into a cautious smile. Stiles put his hand on the table, palm facing upward, and Paul took it and nuzzled at it lightly, visibly relaxing further. “Better?” Stiles asked quietly.

“Better,” Paul said, his smile more genuine, and Stiles breathed a sigh of relief. This was meant to be a date, not a standoff.

“You’re not normally this jealous, I hope,” Sties said, “cause it seems like that would be exhausting to live with.” He had no time for someone who would be looking over his shoulder.

“I’m not normally, but this caught me off guard,” Paul admitted. “I didn’t expect to turn up for our date to find you smelling like another wolf, and for Peter to be sitting there all...”

“Tits out?” Stiles smirked.

Paul’s face split with a wide grin. “That,” he agreed.

“If you've finished giggling like children can we order?” Peter asked with an eyeroll, folding his arms over his chest in a way that, if anything, made the cardigan even more obscene and highlighted his muscular forearms.

Not that Stiles was looking. He was here for Paul, not Tits McGee.

* * *

The date was...barely adequate.

If Stiles was honest, he’d had more fun with Matty. There was a definite lingering awkwardness, and Paul was far less charming in large doses than he was in small. It might have been that Stiles being dressed in Peter’s clothes still had him on edge, but there was something off about his behavior. He leaned in slightly too close, and his touches lingered the tiniest bit too long. It made Stiles squirrelly in a way he couldn’t quite articulate--the closest he could get was that Paul’s attentions were... _presumptuous._ Case in point, Paul had barely called for the check when he placed a hand on Stiles’s arm. “What works for you next weekend? Friday or Saturday?”

“What?” Stiles asked, half-distracted. His gaze had been drawn to Peter’s half-exposed chest like a moth to a flame all night, and that’s where his attention currently was. He couldn’t help it, okay? The sculpted muscles flexing and gleaming in the candlelight were hypnotic, especially since Stiles’s brain helpfully kept reminding him of the expanse of muscle he knew the cardigan was hiding. There were at least one or two spots in the evening where Stiles had no clue what Paul had been talking about, although it was a fair bet it was himself, judging by his track record the rest of the evening. Paul had an ego even bigger than Peter's, it turned out.

“Next weekend. A date.” Paul repeated.

“Oh! Sorry, I can’t,” Stiles said. “My dad and I are going fishing for the weekend.” He and his dad sometimes spent a weekend in an old cabin his dad rented near the lake. They never caught much, but then, it was never about the fish. It was a chance to leave the world behind, unwind, and talk undisturbed, and Stiles and his dad always looked forward to it.

Paul’s face fell for a second before he suggested, “I could tag along?”

Before Stiles even had time to get pissed at Paul's persistence and tell him it was Stilinskis only, Peter interrupted. “Stiles has _clearly_ said he isn’t available.” His tone was icy and his eyes flashed blue.

Stiles pulled his arm out from Paul's grip and scooted his chair back a few inches, slightly rattled and not sure if he was annoyed or grateful at Peter intervening. On the one hand, Stiles had never had any trouble looking after himself. On the other hand, Paul was definitely pushing, and wasn't this the exact reason chaperones were a thing? He decided that on balance, Peter was probably right to step in.

“Fine What about the weekend after?” Paul asked, just as the waiter brought their check. Peter’s came separately of course, as was always the case with chaperones.

Paul flipped his folder open and frowned at it, crossing out a figure and scribbling something instead. He went to close the folder but Stiles reached out and stilled his hand, pulling the paper towards him. “Are you--did you just stiff her on the tip?”

Paul shrugged. “She was doing her job, why should I pay extra?” and wow, he was suddenly _so_ much less attractive now. Their waitress had been perfectly pleasant, and Stiles’s dad had always taught him you could tell a lot about a person by how they tip their waiters.

“Thanks for dinner, but I don’t think this is going to work out,” Stiles said. "Screwing over the server was kind of a deal-breaker for me." He stood before Paul could try and talk him around.

Peter was standing next to him in an instant, offering an arm in that oddly courteous way of his. “Wise choice, sweetheart. Nobody likes a skinflint. Shall we?”

Stiles glanced down at where Peter’s own folder lay open, and was unsurprised to see that the tip had been doubled. Peter was a lot of things, but at least he wasn’t stingy. Stiles looped his arm in Peter’s and they walked away from the table without looking back.

Stiles wasn’t sure why they’d stopped at the hostess station, but it all became clear when then Peter spoke quietly to the woman working there and her smile brightened as she nodded and scurried away, only to come back a minute later with Stiles’s shirt, freshly laundered and packaged in clear plastic, with not a mark on it. Peter thanked her profusely and slipped her two twenties before presenting the bag to Stiles, who stared at the shirt and then at Peter in confusion. Finally he said, “I thought it was a write-off.”

Peter grinned sharply. “With red wine, time is always of the essence. But the lovely Melody,” he nodded at the hostess, “assured me they could take care of it.”

Stiles ran a hand through his hair awkwardly, unsure why Peter’s thoughtful gesture made his chest squeeze. “Thanks. I, uh, you didn’t have to do that. It’s only a shirt.”

Peter shrugged. “It’s _your_ shirt, and it looks good on you. It would have been a shame not to at least try and save it.”

Stiles had no reply to that, so he just let Peter guide him out of the restaurant and to the car. It was only once he was in the car that it occurred to him to ask, “Did you want your clothes back? I can put this on.”

Peter just raised an eyebrow. “It’s fine, Stiles. After all, if a man can’t get his, what was the phrase... _impressive rack_...out on a Friday night, when can he?”

Stiles was still laughing when they pulled out onto the highway.

* * *

They spent most of the drive home in silence as Stiles worked through his disappointment over the way his date had gone. He’d really expected better, but he guessed it wasn’t terrible to know that Paul wasn’t for him. As they approached home he said, “Things with Paul will be weird now, won’t they?”

Peter sighed. “You might find he’s mysteriously busy for the next few family dinners, but then he’ll lick his wounds and get over it. You’re not the first selection to turn down a wolf.”

“Thanks for pulling him into line. I probably could have handled it, though.”

Peter shook his head. “No. Paul’s attractive and popular, and he’s not used to being told no. His ego would have demanded he pressure you into a second date, even though you’re obviously a poor match. ”

“So, he's a dick?”

The corner of Peter's mouth twitched. “I would never say such a thing about my dear nephew.”

Stiles snickered, and Peter’s mouth curled up in a satisfied smile. He looked less guarded than usual, softer, and Stiles wondered if it might be a good time to bring up the subject that had derailed his date to start with. “So listen,” he said, “the car thing.” Peter nodded to indicate he was listening and Stiles forged on. “It kills me to admit it, but you’re right. Even with the work that’s been done, the jeep’s _old._ Something with working aircon might be nice. That, and decent suspension.”

Peter’s smile widened. “We’ll arrange something. Since you’re obviously reluctant to be seen as taking advantage of pack finances, shall we call it your birthday present?”

“I could live with that,” Stiles said, and found he could.

They pulled up to the house and Peter took his arm as they walked up to the door. Stiles hesitated. “Talia will want to know how it went. What do I say?” Because the Alpha was still slightly terrifying, and Paul was her son, and Stiles had a fairly well developed sense of self-preservation. He needed to know how this would play out.

“You tell her you had a nice evening, but that he’s not for you. We keep telling you Stiles, we don’t want to control your love life.”

“So you keep saying.” He had to admit, he certainly hadn’t seen any evidence to the contrary.

And sure enough, when Talia asked him the next morning how it had gone and he made a seesawing motion with his hand, she just smiled and said, “Paul can be a lot. Don’t worry, when you meet the right person, you’ll know,” and then she'd corralled Stiles into helping with the pack’s weekly car wash.

Stiles hoped Talia was right, even though part of him was starting to suspect he wouldn’t recognize the right person if he fell over them. After all, he’d thought Paul was a good fit, and he’d turned out to be pushy and possessive and a tightass.

Still, he mused as he changed into an old tee and some battered shorts, it wasn’t like there was any rush. He was still in high school. And he’d made sure when he filled in his contract that he could date outside the pack, even if that only came into play once he was eighteen, so it wasn’t like his choices were limited to Hales.

He pushed all thoughts of dating aside and clattered down the stairs and outside, ready to spend the afternoon washing cars--for a given value of washing. Peter normally supervised, which meant they didn’t so much ‘wash’ anything as just dick around with the hose, throw soapy sponges, and have a giant water fight for a couple of hours, which ended up with the pack members getting soaked and the cars getting cleaned in a twenty minute frenzy of activity once everyone started to get cold.

Stiles grinned to himself in anticipation. An afternoon full of wet Hales in tight tee shirts? There were worse ways to spend a Saturday.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that it's Monday, okay? And I know this chapter is late. I'm honestly finding RL is kicking my ass at the moment. I work retail, it's the festive season, and I'm doing my best to complete the next book in a series. Oh! and working on my Steter Secret Santa.  
> I'll admit that trying to get these chapters out on time is severely impacting all the other things I'm meant to be doing, and frankly it's taking all the fun out of it. So as of now, the updates will be...when they happen. Might be once a week, might be twice a week, might be once a month. Rest assured I'll still be working on this, I'm just removing the self imposed deadline.

“Remind me why I’m up?” Stiles grumbled into his coffee cup, seated at the battered kitchen table in the fishing cabin.

Truth be told, Stiles didn’t actually hate being awake. Sure, it took a while before his body and brain lurched to functionality and coffee didn't actually help, not with his ADHD in play, but he enjoyed the ritual of it, the quiet moments with just him and his cup, and when he looked out the window he appreciated the way the pre-dawn light streaked across the sky, the cool still air, and the silence broken only by birdsong.

Living with the Hales was noisy, just by virtue of the sheer volume of bodies, and Stiles had missed this, having time with just his dad. Still, he felt morally obliged to grumble, if just for form’s sake, “It’s _Saturday_ , Dad. I should be sleeping in.”

“Best fishing’s early, kid. You know that.” Stiles could hear the smile in his dad’s voice. “Eat your breakfast and then we’ll hit the lake.”

Stiles grinned into his cup. He loved these weekends. They’d started coming here when he was thirteen—god knows what prompted his father to suggest it, but they’d both enjoyed the time together more than either of them had expected, and now it was something of a tradition, one Stiles had been afraid would fall by the wayside when he joined the pack. Stiles was terrible at the actual fishing part of the weekend, but he still loved it—loved the untold potential it held. Every cast was a new possibility. It was a lot like dating like that.

It was as Stiles attacked his pile of toast that his dad asked, “So, what are your plans for your birthday? Are the pack throwing a party?”

Stiles hummed around his toast, and did his father the courtesy of swallowing before he answered. “Nah, it's a Wednesday and everyone works. Talia said something about a barbecue on Saturday though, if you’re interested.” Of course his father would be interested. Michael cooked a mean steak.

As expected, his father said, ”I’m in.”

Stiles shifted uncomfortably in his chair, unsure how his dad would take his other news. “Um, I might also be going to buy a new car? Peter’s not a fan of the jeep and he made it clear that he’d prefer me in something newer and safer, and as much as he was a dick about it, he maybe has a point?”

He tensed, waiting.

“Yeah, well, you’re past due for an upgrade,” his dad said easily.

“You're not upset? I mean, the jeep was Mom’s.”

“And it was past its best when she drove it. I'm with Peter on this one.” At Stiles’s disbelieving look his dad shrugged and took another swallow of coffee. “I’m not the one who’s sentimental over the jeep, Stiles. You are. Me? I'd sooner have you safe.”

“It’s safe,” Stiles protested. “It had work done!”

“Maybe, but something newer’s gonna be safer. What are you looking at?”

“I’m not sure,” Stiles admitted. “Peter’s going to help me choose—we’re calling it a birthday present.”

His dad raised an eyebrow. “Well whatever it is, if Peter’s involved it’ll be top of the line.”

“Right? I’m half afraid that I’ll end up with some over-the-top model that I’m too scared to drive anywhere,” Stiles confessed with a grin. “I mean, he owns a Cobra that he says is ‘just for fun’. Who has a car like that _just for fun?_ ”

“So take someone else along as backup,” his dad said. “Talia, or Derek maybe.”

“That’s a good idea. I wouldn’t waste Talia’s time, but ’ll ask Derek if he’s free.”

The legs of his dad’s chair scraped across the floor of the cabin as he pushed it back from the table. “You ready to wet a line?”

Stiles nodded and put their dishes in the sink, and then they headed out.

* * *

They caught nothing all morning, and Stiles didn’t even care.The sun was warm on his back as he sat cross-legged on the end of the jetty, half-watching his rod for any sign of a bite. Water lapped against the shore in the background, soft and soothing. He could see the tension around his dad’s eyes melting away the longer they sat there, enjoying the peace and quiet.

“I’m glad we still get to do this,” Stiles said. “I’ve heard some packs can be clingy, but the Hales are pretty decent like that.”

His dad turned to him, brow furrowed. “They _are_ decent, right? Nothing I need to be worried about? Because I can get you out of there in a hot second if you need me to, contract be damned.”

Stiles was touched by his concern, but hastened to reassure him, “I promise it’s good, Dad. I'd tell you if it wasn’t.” He hesitated. “I might even consider the bite. Not yet, but I’m gonna see how it works out for Jackson and keep my options open.”

“I assumed you’d at least consider it,” his dad said. “You’ve been obsessed with werewolves since you were little. Hell, you drew whiskers on your face with permanent marker when you were six.” he chuckled at the memory, and Stiles laughed right along with him.

Fishing weekends were the _best_ weekends.

* * *

By the time he got home on Sunday night, Stiles was more relaxed than he had been in weeks. Talia invited his dad to stay for dinner but John screwed up his nose and said, “Normally I’d say yes, but I really need to get home and shower. God knows what it is about baitfish that makes the smell linger, but I’m not gonna inflict that on you over dinner.”

Talia accepted his refusal with good grace, and Stiles and his dad shared one last hug before he waved him goodbye and walked up the stairs to shower—he really did smell like baitfish. He spent a long time in the shower making sure all traces of the weekend had been washed away before heading back downstairs for dinner. He bumped into Derek on his way into the dining room and remembered what he’d wanted to ask him.

“Hey, Der. You busy Thursday afternoon?” Derek raised an eyebrow at him and Stiles said, “Peter’s taking me car shopping, and I need someone to make sure I don’t end up in an Alfa Romeo or something pretentious like that.”

“Please,” Peter drawled from behind him, almost giving Stiles a heart attack. “The insurance premiums for a teenage driver would put that out of even my reach. Also, I’m franky insulted you don’t trust my judgement.”

Stiles clutched his chest and glared. “Do you _have_ to keep sneaking up on me like that?”

Peter gave a toothy grin. “I don’t _have_ to, no. But it’s such fun watching you flail about.”

Derek snickered and Stiles glared at him as well. “And _you_. He jabbed Derek’s chest with his finger. It was like poking at cement. “You could have told me he was behind me!”

“Sure I could have. But where’s the fun in that?” Derek grinned, and Stiles remembered too late that Derek had that Hale trolling gene going on. He slapped Stiles on the shoulder with enough force to make him stumble, and said, “I’ll come look at cars with you, as long as we can stop and grab dinner after. Then Mom doesn’t have to worry about feeding us if we get home late.”

“And it’s totally out of consideration for your mother, and not because you know most of the dealerships are near that fried chicken place you like,” Peter said drily. Derek just grinned.

“How long do you think this is going to take?” Stiles asked, genuinely curious.

Peter sighed. “It depends on if you’re willing to listen to my advice. If you insist on test driving everything in sight, it could be a long evening.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I’m not gonna waste everyone's time, I promise. As long as your advice doesn’t include ugly cars.”

“Please. My taste is impeccable.”

“So you keep saying.”

“Only because it’s true. Now, dinner? I believe everyone else is waiting,” Peter turned and strolled into the dining room, like he hadn’t contributed to the delay in the first place.

He really was a massive dick sometimes.

* * *

Stiles’s birthday brought a stack of gifts with his breakfast, hugs from all the pack members who were home, and a slew of texts from the ones who weren’t— including one from Paul that read ‘ _Happy birthday Stiles. Sorry I overstepped last week. No hard feelings?’_

 _‘Nah. You were just helpless in the face of my awesomeness’_ he shot back.

Peter raised an eyebrow in query across the breakfast table, and Stiles showed him the screen. “Turns out you were right.”

“Of course I was,” Peter smirked.

Talia cleared her throat from where she was seated at the head of the table. “You’ll be registered in the Selections central database as an adult member of the Hale pack today, Stiles. Congratulations. Peter?”

Peter reached into his pocket and drew out a small package and tossed it at Stiles. “I suppose you’d better have this, since it’s your special day.”

Stiles turned the package over in his hands and then pulled the wrapping loose. Inside was a braided leather bracelet that held a single silver bead with the Hale triskele embossed on it, the same one Derek had tattooed on his back. Most of the adults in the pack had one, and Stiles had noticed them of course. He just hadn’t given them much thought.

“Um, thanks. What does it mean?”

Peter rolled his eyes.“It’s to mark that you're an adult member of the pack. You’re welcome.”

Oh. That was...unexpected. He felt warmth flood through him as he fiddled with the cords that tied the bracelet together. He laid the bracelet over his wrist and tried to tie it with his other hand, until Peter gave a loud sigh and held his palm out flat. The implication was clear, and Stiles obediently put his hand in Peter’s. Peter’s movements were deft and sure and his skin was warm as he tied the cord efficiently, sliding a finger all around Stiles’s wrist beneath it to make sure it wasn’t too tight, before giving a satisfied nod. “There. You’re marked as pack.”

It looked _good._

Stiles twisted it this way and that, grinning. “How come Derek doesn’t have one?” he asked.

“Because I kept breaking it at work, so I went with the tattoo,” Derek replied easily. Stiles could see that—Derek worked as a landscape gardener, and he could only imagine the toll that would take on a strip of leather.

“And where’s yours?” he asked Peter, because he knew his wrists were always bare. Not that he’d spent any time looking at Peter’s wide palms and thick fingers, or watching the veins in his forearms pop. He’d just noticed, that was all.

“What and where I have my pack symbol is no concern of yours,” Peter said, at exactly the same moment Cora blurted out, “He has an ass tattoo.”

Peter glared at her as she grinned wildly.

“Really? Can I see?” Stiles was wildly entertained by the thought.

“No!” Peter huffed.

“So, you _do_ have one?” Stiles asked, grinning. This birthday was getting better by the minute.

“I _do not_ have an _ass tattoo,_ ” Peter growled, eyes flashing in warning, and Stiles decided he’d better leave well enough alone.

“No, he doesn’t,“ Talia cut in, and all eyes turned to her. The corners of her mouth tugged upwards as she said, “I’d call it more...upper thigh.”

“Talia!” Peter snapped, and pushed his chair back abruptly. “Some of us have work to do. I’ll be in my office.” He stalked from the dining room amid snickering from the rest of the pack.

Stiles nudged Laura and asked in an undertone,“Does he actually have an ass tattoo?”

She smiled sweetly, leaned in close and whispered, _“You’ll never know.”_

Goddam Hales—trolls, every last one of them. It was probably why Stiles fitted in so well. Still, it gave him something fun to speculate on while he got ready for school. Not that he was thinking about Peter Hale’s thick thighs or his criminally sweet ass. It was just entertaining, that was all.

* * *

After breakfast Stiles got in his jeep, and it struck him that this was probably one of the last times he’d drive his baby. He patted the dashboard and briefly considered changing his mind, but he pushed the thought aside. It was time to move on.

When he got to school Scotty was waiting by his locker with a gift bag. He threw a handful of birthday sparkles at Stiles with a lopsided grin. “Eighteen, dude!”

“Right?” Stiles grinned. “I’m officially an adult.” He brushed the sparkles out of his hair and said, “Did I tell you my birthday present is upgrading the jeep?

Scott’s mouth dropped open. “But--it was your Mom’s!”

Stiles sighed. “I know, but even my dad agrees it’s time, so I decided I may as well take what’s on offer. Peter ’s gonna help me pick something new tomorrow after school.”

Scott’s lips thinned in disapproval. “And is Peter part of what’s on offer? Because you know they can’t force— “

Stiles cut him off. “No. Absolutely not. Not going there. Peter is _definitel_ y not on offer and even if he was, I’d politely decline.” Scott looked slightly mollified at that, and Stiles shoulder checked him and added, “Besides, dude. _New car._ How cool is that?”

“Pretty cool,” Scott grudgingly admitted.

“Right? I keep telling you, Scott. This is the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Scott sighed. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe being in a pack isn’t terrible.”

Stiles knew what it had cost Scott to admit that, and he felt a rush of affection for his best friend, along with a wave of sympathy. Stiles knew they hadn’t spent as much time together as they used to but Scott hadn’t complained, just accepted that Stiles had different obligations now. Stiles almost felt bad bragging about his upgrade, because he knew Scott’s bike was on its last legs—it had been missing from the carpark again today, so he assumed it had broken down.

In a flash of inspiration, he held out his keys. “Hey, Scotty. Wanna do me a favor and give Roscoe a good home?”

Scott’s eyes grew wide. “What?”

“Take the jeep.”

Scott stammered out, “Dude, you can’t—I can’t— “ but his eyes kept flicking to the keys.

“I can, and you can,” Stiles said firmly. “I want it to go to someone who appreciates it. Plus, your bike is a piece of shit.”

Scott’s Adam's apple bobbed and his mouth opened and closed, before he finally said, “You’re sure?”

Stiles took it as a yes and dragged Scott into a hug. “Trust me, you’re doing me a favor.” And he was. Stiles couldn't bear the thought of someone buying his jeep and not treating it with the respect it deserved. 

Scott made a strangled noise which Stiles supposed was brought on by the shock of suddenly owning a jeep. He patted Scott on the shoulder and stepped back. “Take it home today. We’ll sort the paperwork out over the weekend, okay?”

“Okay,” Scott said, blinking like a perplexed owl. “Okay.”

“Great. Now gimme my present.” Stiles made grabby hands at the gift bag that was hanging forgotten on Scott's arm.

Scott handed it over, his sunny smile returning. It's the usual.”

Stiles dug in the bag and found not one, but _two_ plaid shirts in his size. It was a tradition dating back to when Stiles was a kid with no mom to shop for him— Melissa bought him shirts for his birthday, and over the years it had morphed into Scott buying him the ugliest plaids he could find. Stiles held up the shirts with a grin. “Oh man, these are the best! Peter’s gonna hate them!”

The bell for class rang, so Stiles stuffed the shirts back into the bag and then he and Scott went to pretend they were paying attention in chemistry.

* * *

Stiles drove the jeep home one last time with Scott by his side, and then he fished all his crap out of the back and handed the keys over with barely a twinge. Scott beamed at him as he drove away, and a wave of satisfaction washed over Stiles at getting to do something nice, making his friend’s day—hell, probably his month. He watched the car rumble down the driveway and turned to find Peter strolling down the porch steps toward him in worn jeans and a vee neck, feet bare. “Let me guess,” he said as he approached, “You weren’t quite ready to let go of it, and Scott needs a car?”

“Something like that.”

“Well here’s hoping we find something suitable tomorrow then,” Peter commented, “because it’s a long walk to town from here.”

Stiles frowned. “But—I thought the pack would have a car I could use? Like last time?”

“I was teasing, Stiles. But it’s good to see you coming to grips with how the household works.” Peter stepped closer and whispered, “If you’re quick enough to snag Cora’s Lexus in the morning, she’ll be _furious._ ” He grinned wickedly as he said it.

“Wait--is this you trying to get revenge for her ratting you out for your ass tattoo?” Stiles asked.

“I refuse to confirm the existence of any such tattoo, and I would never indulge in petty revenge,” Peter said, and Stiles didn't need to be a werewolf to know that _that_ was a barefaced lie.

Or bare-assed. Whatever.

Still. “She’d be mad at me, not you,” Stiles pointed out, “and that’s frankly a terrifying prospect.”

Peter sighed. “You really must learn to live a little, Stiles. Besides, she really can't do anything. As a selection, you’re under the protection of the Left Hand.”

Stiles thought about that. “That’s actually pretty sneaky, using me as your fall guy.”

Peter’s face was a picture of innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m merely reminding you of your transportation options.” And then he sauntered away, leaving Stiles to collect all his belongings and carry them inside. Still, he got to watch Peter’s ass in those jeans while he did so, and it was quite the view.

* * *

He left early, and he took the Lexus.

His phone pinged twice while he was driving. When he parked at the diner in town and checked his messages he had one from Cora that said-- _I know Peter put you up to this because of Assgate, Stilinski_. _You’ll keep._

Stiles snickered at the message and hoped like hell Cora would see the funny side of it when she’d calmed down.

The other one was from Peter — _You missed a truly spectacular tantrum, sweetheart. I may have to buy you dinner after this._

Stiles grinned, and went inside and ordered breakfast.

* * *

The day dragged, but finally he escaped his classes and drove home. He got changed and then they piled into Peter’s SUV and drove to the strip of car dealerships on the far side of town.

It was kind of entertaining, the way the salesmen all perked up at the sight of potential customers. It was like watching meerkats, honestly. And once they heard the words _Hale Pack_ , they doubled their efforts to be of service.

It meant that Stiles was able to narrow down what he wanted fairly quickly. Just like he’d predicted, Peter pushed for something newer and better, but Stiles dug his heels in. “This one,” he insisted. “It’s what I want.”

Derek, bless his soul, chimed in with, “It’s a perfectly good car, Peter. And you said Stiles could choose.”

“I don’t want something new,” Stiles repeated. “I’d be afraid to drive it.”

Peter insisted on examining the car more closely, and in the end, after an extensive test drive, he conceded that if Stiles was going to be stubborn, this was a good choice. He immediately started to haggle viciously, and within the hour, Stiles was the proud owner of a bright blue three year old RAV4.

Peter presented him the keys with a flourish. “Drive me to dinner, Stiles?”

“Hell, yes.”

Stiles was thrilled. The car was almost the same color as his jeep, but unlike the jeep it drove like a dream. They followed Derek to the chicken place and holy hell, parking with a reversing camera was awesome.

Before they went inside, Stiles turned to Peter. “Thanks for helping with this.”

“It was my pleasure, sweetheart.” Peter’s smile was genuine. “You chose well.”

“Turns out I’m not completely tasteless,” Stile said.

“Not completely, no,” Peter said with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Although I was saddened to see the return of the plaid.”

Stiles looked down at the shirt Scott had bought him and grinned. “I wore it just for you.”

Peter didn’t dignify that with a reply.

* * *

Derek was right. The chicken was awesome, and dinner was fun. Peter reenacted Cora’s tantrum for them since Derek had also missed it, and Stiles laughed so hard he snorted soda out of his nose, which of course meant it got all over his shirt. Peter didn’t offer a replacement this time though, since Stiles wasn’t out to impress anyone.

Afterwards, at Derek’s suggestion, they walked to a nearby ice cream parlor and had dessert, and was there any more ridiculous sight than two fully grown werewolves with a sweet tooth grinning around ice cream cones? Stiles didn't think so.

It was past nine when they got home, and Stiles still had homework to do, but he didn’t care. He thanked Peter and Derek again, then sought out Talia. He found her alone, watching a documentary in one of the sitting rooms. “I just wanted to say thanks for the car,” he said.

Talia smiled warmly. “You’re welcome, Stiles. We like to take care of our pack members. How was your dinner date?”

Stiles’s mouth dropped open. “Dinner date?”

“With Derek.”

“That—no, that wasn’t a date,“ he hastened to assure her. “We just ate after doing the car thing.”

“Oh? Are you sure?” Talia said, eyes twinkling.

Before Stiles had time to panic that he’d missed something somewhere, there was the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps and Derek’s head appeared around the doorframe. “Not a date, Mom.” Talia smirked and Derek rolled his eyes. “Stiles, I promise that if I ask you, I'll ask you properly.” He flashed Stiles a smile that made him go weak at the knees, and then he was gone.

Talia smiled widely, unrepentant. “Sorry, Stiles. Even the Alpha deserves a little fun. And what’s more fun than teasing my underlings?”

Stiles grinned back, warmth spreading through him at the thought his Alpha considered him pack enough to tease him. Did that make him an underling? He guessed so. He took the opportunity to ask, “Since fun and games is encouraged, does that mean I’m off the hook for taking Cora’s car?”

Talia didn’t tease when she answered, probably able to tell Stiles was still kind of nervous about it. “I’ll let you off this once, if only because I know Peter’s a terrible influence and incredibly persuasive. And of course, Cora’s been warned there are to be no repercussions. She tends to forget humans are breakable.”

“So breakable,” Stiles agreed, and thought fleetingly about the bite.

He left Talia to her program and went and worked through his homework, and laughed to himself at Talia trying to pass off fried chicken and ice cream cones as a date. He had to give her credit though—she’d nearly had him fooled. Just for a horrible second, he’d been afraid she was going to say he’d been on a date with Peter.

As if.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting to write this chapter from the start. Also- sorrynotsorry?

Stiles nudged his dad with his elbow. “That’s your third burger. Salad next.”

His dad shrugged. “Talia said if my arteries harden too much I can always take the bite.” He grinned at Stiles’s outraged look and took another bite of burger, then chased it with a swallow of beer.

In truth, his dad looked better than he had in a long time—more relaxed—and Stiles knew it was due to his planned early retirement at the end of the year. Thanks to a generous payment from the pack, (which Scott insisted on referring to as Stiles’s ‘bride price’) the house was paid off and there was enough that his dad would be able to live comfortably. Even if living with the pack hadn’t worked out as well as it had, Stiles thought that it would have been worth it just for that.

He stretched and stood, patting his dad on the shoulder before meandering away from the picnic table and making his way over to where Scott was sitting. “Hey, Scotty. Thanks for coming.”

“Of course I came, dude.” He grinned at Stiles from around a mouthful of the ribs that Michael had had in the smoker for most of the day. “It’s your birthday.”

“Not scared that the Hales are gonna whisk you away and bite you?” Stiles teased.

Scott’s nose scrunched up. “I already said I might have been wrong. Don’t rub it in.” Stiles scruffed his hair reflexively—the werewolf habit of casual touch really was rubbing off on him—and then wandered off, finally settling at one of several picnic tables near the edge of the yard. His birthday barbecue had been awesome but it had been a long afternoon full of a lot of people, and he needed to take a breath.

Stiles leaned his elbows on the table and propped his chin in his hands, letting the sounds of his pack wash over him. Cora and Derek were bickering about something in the background, his friends were chattering away, and it sounded like his dad was talking to Talia. The late afternoon sun was warm on his back, and Stiles allowed his eyes to flutter closed.

He was just relaxing nicely when a voice drawled, “Does the birthday boy need a nap?”

Stiles flailed and his eyes snapped open to find Peter sitting across from him—he hadn’t even heard him approaching. “Jesus, are you ever going to stop being such a creeper?”

“Probably not. It’s the nature of the Left Hand,” Peter said, and Stiles could hear the capital letters. “Why are you hiding though? Is something wrong?”

“No, today’s been great,” Stiles said honestly. “I just needed a minute alone. Sensory overload.” He indicated vaguely to where his friends were all gathered.

Peter, surprisingly, didn’t tease him about it. “Did you want me to leave?” he said instead, and it occurred to Stiles that Peter hadn’t come over to needle him, but to check on him.

It was a nice change, and prompted him to say, “Nah, you can stay.”

Peter’s smile was genuine, and Stiles noted idly that his eyes were the exact same shade of blue as the summer sky. “Do you want some cake?” Peter asked.

Stiles cast a glance over to the crowd of people at the serving tables. “Are you getting it for me?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I just offered, didn’t I?”

Stiles made a seesawing motion with his hand. “You asked if I wanted some. That’s not the same as offering to get me some. Semantics are important.”

Peter heaved a sigh. “Stiles, would you like me to fetch you a slice of birthday cake?”

Stiles grinned, because it wasn’t often he had a win. “That would be lovely. And that’s a yes, in case you were wondering,” he added, because it would be just like Peter to flip the wordplay back on him.

Peter disappeared and came back with two plates, each holding a slice of black forest cake, the cream and dark chocolate offset with glistening red cherry juice. He handed Stiles his plate and a cake fork, and started to eat his own slice.

Stiles was distracted for a minute by the way Peter's throat worked as he swallowed, but then he turned his attention to the cake. At the first bite he let out a groan of sheer pleasure. The cake itself was moist, the chocolate shavings smooth and rich, and the cherries popped under his teeth and flooded his mouth with fresh, sweet juice. “Oh my god. Fresh cherries, not tinned.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Using anything other than fresh is a travesty.”

“Agreed,” Stiles mumbled around his cake. He swallowed and said “Whoever made this is my new favorite person.“

Peter smirked. “Thank you. Can I have that in writing?”

Stiles stilled, fork halfway to his mouth. “ _You_ made this?”

Peter’s smirk widened. “I’m a man of many talents, sweetheart. And I like to cook.”

“But—this is phenomenal.”

“I’ll choose not to take your surprise as an insult, but only because I’m your new favorite person.” Peter grinned sharply, before leaning in and dragging a thumb over Stiles’s bottom lip and holding it out smeared with cream and cherry juice. “Open.”

Stiles obeyed without thinking, and then Peter was sliding the thumb between his lips and he found himself sucking on firm flesh. His mouth filled with the taste of cherries and sweet cream with an undertone of salt and skin. Peter pulled his thumb back slowly, and Stiles didn’t even realise he was leaning forward chasing more until Peter let out a low chuckle. “Such a greedy boy.”

Stiles felt heat flood his face. “Don’t flatter yourself. It was the cake.” His voice cracked slightly, and he shoved another forkful of cake into his mouth to cover his embarrassment, cheeks burning. What the hell had that been? Was Peter—“Are you flirting with me?” he blurted out.

Peter laughed, eyes bright with mischief, and Stiles remembered too late what the Hales were like. “Please, sweetheart. If I was flirting, you’d know it.” And then he flicked his tongue out delicately and captured a dollop of cream off his own fork, somehow managing to make it look utterly filthy.

“You’re a fucking menace,” Stiles muttered, gaze fixed on his plate.

“Thank you. I do try.”

Stiles ate the rest of his cake in silence, mind whirling. It had felt a hell of a lot like flirting to him, whatever Peter claimed, and Stiles had responded, hadn't he? Except, he didn’t even _like_ Peter. Peter was—he was a necessary inconvenience, like vaccinations and dentist’s visits, something that was tolerated for the overall benefits. Stiles put up with Peter’s presence and smartassery and general teasing because the man was an integral part of the pack, that was all, and so what if he was handsome and clever and had a neck that made Stiles want to lick a stripe up it a mile wide?

“Sweetheart? Are you all right? I really was only teasing. I didn't mean to imply any kind of claim.” There was genuine concern in Peter’s voice and Stiles realized he’d probably been silent for far too long.

He forced a smile. “You wish, old man. I’m out of your league.”

Peter gave a suitably convincing sputter of outrage. “ _Old man?_ I’ll have you know I'm in my prime!”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Stiles grinned. Peter rolled his eyes and with that the strange awkwardness passed, the choppy waters of unexpected attraction successfully navigated.

Still. Stiles’s gaze kept drifting unbidden to Peter’s mouth, watching that clever tongue as it wrapped itself around the fork, sliding up and down the tines and making his brain run riot and his dick twitch with previously unconsidered possibilities. Stiles tamped down on those thoughts _hard,_ refusing to give in to his libido.

So Peter was objectively hot. So what?

Didn’t make him less of a dick.

* * *

“Busy, sweetheart?”

Stiles looked up from scrolling through his phone to find Peter leaning against the doorframe of his suite, eyebrows raised in inquiry. “It depends. What do you want?”

“I thought you might like to help with the grocery run. It’s a three person job and all the other available bodies appear to have made themselves scarce.”

Stiles didn’t blame them. Shopping for the pack was an undertaking and a half. Talia, Michael and Peter took turns, and from what he’d heard from Cora, Peter ran the operation with military precision that was almost terrifying. It was probably why she and Isaac had disappeared, even though Stiles knew for a fact it was their turn.

He sighed and levered himself upright from where he’d been sprawled on the couch. “You said a three person job. Who else is helping?”

“Derek. He’s just showering and then we’ll go. Unless you have more important things to do, like homework?” Peter was looking at him expectantly, and for all he’d framed it as an invitation Stiles was pretty sure “Sorry, I'm busy scrolling reddit” wasn’t gonna cut it as an excuse to say no.

Stiles sighed again. “No, I’m free.”

“Try not to let your enthusiasm run away with you,” Peter said drily. “I’ll meet you downstairs in ten minutes.”

Stiles spent the ten minutes putting on shoes, finding a clean shirt, and taming his hair so Peter wouldn’t bitch at him about being an urchin. He hadn’t expected to be going out tonight, but with the amount they bought, it worked best if they hit the store later in the evening so they didn’t hold up other shoppers--not that anyone would say anything, not to the Hales.

He stretched, feeling his back creak as the muscles untwisted from where he’d been pretzelling on the couch, and trudged downstairs. Derek was just ahead of him, and Peter practically shoved them out the door and into two separate cars—they’d need both to carry the groceries home. “Riding with me or Derek?” Peter asked.

Derek was mouthing ‘ _Meee’_ behind Peter’s back and grinning widely, so Stiles said, “I think I’ll go with Der,” and scrambled into Derek’s black SUV. Honestly, he wondered sometimes if the pack deliberately set out to look like a mafia family. Mind you, he wasn’t convinced Peter didn’t have a horses head in a freezer somewhere, just in case.

Derek was still wearing that mischievous smile as they drove away so Stiles asked, “What gives?”

“Uncle Peter ambushed me as I walked in the door, and I already missed lunch today. I’m kidnapping you so we can stop and eat, two against one, right?” Derek grinned.

Stiles snorted. “He is _not_ gonna be happy about that.”

“I know.” Derek’s smile got wider as he leaned over and hit the bluetooth connection for Peter’s number and put him on speaker.

The phone rang twice and then Peter snapped, “What is it now?”

“Hey Peter? Stiles and I are hungry so we’re stopping for Mexican first. That place on Fifth Street okay with you?”

Stiles treated Derek to a wide-eyed stare as he pointed to himself and mouthed an outraged, _”’Me?”_ Derek just shrugged.

“Really? The two of you can’t wait until we’re done?” Peter said, disapproval evident.

“Hey, they say don’t shop hungry and I’m starving,” Derek said blithely.

“That sounds like a you problem,” Peter said, and if Stiles had to describe Peter in one word right then? It would be _peeved._

“Wow, you are such a crankywolf,” Stiles said. “Are you sure you’re not hungry too?”

There was a moment’s silence and then Peter muttered, “Order me a burrito bowl, no jalapenos,” as if the request was being dragged from him.

“Sure thing, see you there,“ Derek said. He ended the call and grinned at Stiles, and he just looked so damned pleased with himself Stiles couldn’t help but start cackling. Derek joined in, his rich laughter filling the car. They’d barely stopped giggling by the time they parked and piled into the hole-in-the-wall restaurant.

They’d already placed their orders when Peter stalked in the door and sat next to Stiles, crowding him close to the wall. “Was this your idea?” He asked.

Stiles threw his arms out in front of him, palms up. “Why would you think it’s my idea? I’m not the one who digs for a living and needs to eat his body weight because he’s a literal wall of muscle!”

Derek patted his hand softly. “Aw, Stiles.You finally noticed me.” His eyes sparkled and he was wearing that breathtaking smile of his.

“Did you remember no jalapenos?” Peter’s voice cut in sharply, and Derek pulled his hand away.

“Order’s on its way,” Stiles said. “Wow, I’ve never known someone get so annoyed at having to eat Mexican. Do you have a single fun bone in your body?”

Derek bit back a laugh and Stiles flushed when he realised just how that sounded. The corners of Peter’s mouth twitched as he said, “Perhaps just the one.”

Before Stiles could embarrass himself further their food arrived and they ate with gusto. Derek had ordered the werewolf-rated portions for all of them, and Stiles struggled through about a third of his nachos before admitting defeat. Peter and Derek had already finished their meals, and Peter leaned across and scooped a corn chip through the guacamole and popped it in his mouth. “Finish it,” Stiles said, waving the hand that wasn’t resting on his stomach. “I'm so done.”

Peter didn’t waste any time sliding the plate over in front of himself and working his way through the rest of the dish. It was kind of hypnotic, watching him load the chips up and neatly pop them into his mouth. The bastard never even dripped any sauce— it was unnatural, honestly. Once he was done, he pushed the plate back and reached for his wallet, but Stiles was quicker. “Let me.”

“It’s a living expense, Stiles, you’re not expected to pay.”

“I know that, but I _want_ to.” Peter raised an eyebrow and Stiles tried to explain. “Since I moved in I’ve had an allowance, all my bills paid, a _new freaking car,_ and I haven’t bought so much as a can of soda. I’d say I feel like a sugar baby, except for the whole...”

“Lack of sugar?” Peter smirked, and Stiles was once again distracted by the blue of those eyes.

“Shut up. Yes. No. Anyway, dinner’s on me?”

He almost expected an argument, but Peter gave a small smile. “If you feel that strongly about it, be my guest.”

Stiles went and paid, and it felt _good_ , sliding his card across without worrying about whether he’d be able to buy gas later on, or if the machine would make that forlorn beep that meant the account was empty. He took his receipt with a smile and turned to find his wolves waiting for him.

“Was it everything you thought it would be?” Peter teased.

Stiles smiled widely, the type of smile born from unaccustomed financial security, the one that lottery winners wore. “It really was. I feel very empowered.”

Peter laughed, and he must have been hungrier than he was willing to admit before, because now he’d eaten, he was almost nice to be around—almost. He tapped his watch and said, “Are there any other unscheduled stops we need to make? A stroll in the park, maybe? Or can we get on with what we came out to do?”

“Sure,” Derek said easily, “ready when you are.”

Once they were in the car, Derek said, “Peter's notorious for rushing people out the door. I like to keep him on his toes.”

“You know, I'm starting to think you’re genuinely evil.”

Derek shrugged, started the car, and pulled out in front of Peter’s car, cutting him off.

“ _Evil,”_ Stiles repeated, and Derek beamed at Stiles’s assessment.

* * *

Three hours later they were done, and Stiles had a new appreciation for Peter's desire to get in and out of there as quickly as possible. The Hales weren’t famous, not exactly, but they were well known, and even when they followed Peter’s meticulous plan to the letter, there were plenty of delays as either Derek or Peter got stopped in their tracks by someone enquiring after Talia, or Michael, or lovely Miss Laura—how was she settling into her job at the preschool, and was she still single? (Stiles made a mental note to call her ‘Lovely Miss Laura’ when they got home. He also made a mental note to make sure he was out of arm’s reach when he did so, because lovely or not, Laura could give one hell of a chinese burn.)

Stiles watched, transfixed, as Peter was all charm and seemingly sincere smiles, answering people’s questions, remembering their names, and asking after their own families, before smoothly breaking up the conversation with “If you’ll excuse me, I have a date with the produce section,” and moving deftly on.

Derek wasn’t as good at deflecting people as Peter, but then again, Stiles noted, it was mainly women in their twenties who wanted to talk to Derek, and they certainly weren’t asking after his mom or his sister. Stiles could see that Derek was struggling to extract himself from one particularly persistent girl who had a hand on his arm and so he sashayed up, slipped a hand around Derek’s waist and gazed at him adoringly. “Hey, Der. Wanna come help me find a bodywash we like?”

Derek’s eyebrows shot skyward and Stiles breathed out quietly enough that only the werewolf could hear, “Go with it.”

Derek’s eyes lit up with understanding, and that sexy smile of his slid onto his face. “Hey babe, I’ll be there in a minute. I was just talking to...Shar...Sher...Sho... “ His face twisted in confusion.

“Shauna,” the girl pouted.

“Right? Shauna. Have you met Stiles? He’s one of the pack’s newest selections,” Derek said, one hand coming up and rubbing casually through Stiles’s hair, blatantly scenting him.

“Body wash, Derbear?” Stiles cooed, leaning into Derek’s side and ignoring Shauna completely. Judging by her sour expression, it wasn’t something that happened often.

“Sorry Shauna, I really need to go,” Derek said. “We’re shopping with Peter and he likes to get it over and done with.”

It was as if someone had flicked a switch, because suddenly Shauna was all smiles again. “Peter’s here? Why didn’t you say? I’m going to go and say hello,” she said, before heading off to hunt down her prey.

Derek and Stiles stayed wrapped around each other until she was out of sight, and Derek chuckled into Stiles’ hair. “And you say I’m evil. _Derbear?”_

Stiles grinned. “It seemed to fit. And it got rid of her, didn't it?”

“Maybe she'll have more luck with Peter,” Derek mused, and even though he knew it was a joke, for some reason Stiles didn’t find it all that funny. Peter deserved better than someone who just wanted any available wolf.

He only got to play at being Derek’s squeeze twice more before Peter stalked over and outright glared at them and told them to stop being ridiculous. By then they were practically done, so it didn't matter anyway. They wheeled their overloaded carts to the checkout and Stiles almost wanted to apologise to the poor woman who had to ring their purchases up, but Peter and Derek were friendly enough and they unloaded everything efficiently, and the woman had obviously rung through their order many times before because she wasn’t even remotely fazed. Stiles helped where he could, and soon enough it was done. While Peter paid, Stiles flicked idly through the rack of novelty tees near the counter. “I thought we already upgraded your wardrobe,” Peter sniffed.

“We did,”Stiles replied as something caught his eye. He grinned, pulled the shirt off the rack and put it face down on the counter. “This is for you.”

Peter tried to see what it said but Stiles kept a hand firmly planted on it. Peter narrowed his eyes. “If it’s offensive, it’s going straight in the bin.”

“But it’s a gift! You can’t throw out a gift!” Stiles snagged a gift bag from a nearby stand and waved it about to make his point before adding it to his purchase. Once he’d paid, he asked, “Excuse me, do you have a pen?”

The woman’s eyes flicked from the shirt to Peter, her lips twitched, and she wordlessly handed Stiles a ballpoint. He filled in the gift tag and stuffed the shirt inside the bag, but he waited until both cars were loaded and the carts put away before he handed it over under the lights in the parking lot.

Peter handled the bag gingerly, as though he was holding a dead rat by the tail, and squinted at the gift tag, his eyebrows hitting his hairline when he read the words there. “ _For my Sugar Daddy?_ Really, Stiles?”

“Oh my god,“ Derek breathed, grinning from ear to ear, “open it, I’m begging you.”

Peter scowled at him, but he opened the bag and held the shirt up, and Stiles was so, so glad they’d done this in the parking lot, because the bright lights made the glittery writing stand out so much better.

Peter held the white shirt up and tilted his head this way and that, as if that would make the words change, but they stayed stubbornly the same. Finally, Peter read the words out, each one carefully enunciated and fairly dripping off his tongue.

“‘Pour. Some. Sugar. On. Me.”

Derek gave a high pitched giggle and clapped a hand over his mouth. He looked utterly delighted. Stiles held his breath and waited to see what Peter would say. He personally thought it was hilarious, given their earlier conversation, but you never knew with Peter.

Peter caught his gaze, quirked an eyebrow, and in a sultry voice that Stiles would probably jerk off to later, said, “Are you offering, sweetheart, or asking?”

And then the bastard _winked_.

“ _Oh my fucking god!_ You always have to take it to the next level!”” Stiles exclaimed, but he was laughing as he said it. “You’re unbelievable!”

“So I’ve been told,” Peter said, and then there was a genuine smile creasing his features, and Stiles tried not to think too hard about why he even cared. Peter folded the shirt carefully and tucked it back in the bag. “Thank you, Stiles. I’ll treasure it.”

“That shirt’s never seeing the light of day again,” Derek whispered.

“Definitely not,”Stiles agreed, but it still gave him a warm little thrill, the way Peter clutched the bag tightly as he got in his car.

* * *

Peter insisted that Cora and Isaac put all the groceries away, and they were smart enough not to argue with him.

* * *

A week and a half after Stiles’s birthday, he drove home after spending the afternoon with Scott. They’d gone out for pizza and then to a movie, and it was close to dusk when he pulled up at the house. He went to grab his phone, frowning when he realized he didn't have it with him. Then he remembered. He’d been on 3% battery, so he’d plugged it in to charge, figuring he wouldn’t need it while he was at the movies. He’d forgotten to pick it up after, so it was still at Scott's. He reflexively patted his pockets to text Scott and ask him to bring his phone over before he realized what he was doing, and shook his head at his idiocy.

He was barely out of the car when the front door burst open and Peter came flying out, eyes hard and jaw clenched. _“Where have you been?_ ” he demanded, prodding Stiles in the chest and making him stumble. “I’ve been calling all afternoon!”

Stiles flailed and his back hit the door of the car.“What the hell, Peter? I was out with Scott. What is your problem?” he snapped back.

“You...you _idiot boy_ , you don’t even know what you’ve done, do you?” Peter actually snarled, eyes flashing bright blue. “You didn’t understand, and you refused to ask for help, and now— “

 _“Peter.”_ Talia’s voice rang out strong and clear, soaked in Alpha power, and Peter went still, before taking several deep breaths and stepping carefully back.

“I’ll be inside,” he said, and stalked up the porch steps, slamming the door behind him.

“What the hell was that?” Stiles asked, turning to Talia.

He expected her to tell him Peter was being dramatic, but her whole body was held ramrod stiff, and she said, “My office, Stiles. Now.”

No _please_ , he noted, and that was unlike her. Cold fingers of dread clutched at Stiles’s heart. “It’s—it’s not my dad, is it?”

Talia’s expression softened the slightest bit and she sighed, “Your father’s fine. No Stiles, the problem we have is you.”

_“Me?”_

Talia tilted her head. “More specifically, your contract. We're not sure what happened, that’s why we’ve been trying to get hold of you all day. We’ll discuss it inside.”

Stiles’s gut churned and his mind raced as he followed Talia up to her office. His _contract?_

When they got to Talia’s office Peter was waiting inside, a familiar looking contract clutched tightly in one hand and a scowl on his face. He opened his mouth but Talia held up one hand, and it snapped shut again. Stiles had never seen him look so agitated.

Talia sat at her desk and cleared her throat and Stiles waited for her to speak. After a moment Talia let out a shaky breath and squared her shoulders, all business. “First things first. Stiles, I need to know, and obviously it's your choice to make, but when you signed your contract, did you intend to make yourself available for claim by other packs?”

Stile eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. It took a second before he was able to stammer out a “Wh-what?”

“That’s a no, then,” Peter said, “which means we definitely have a problem, and it's all because this idiot child was too stubborn to ask when he didn't understand something.”

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Stiles protested. “I-I didn’t sign up for other packs?”

"Your paperwork says differently." Peter held up his contract, flipped open to the last page. One question was circled in red—the one that he’d had trouble figuring out. Peter raised an eyebrow at him, cleared his throat, and read the question aloud. _“Does this contract limit partnership claims to within the Hale pack, rejecting out of hand any and all outside claims?”_ You answered no, Stiles. You’re available for claim.”

Stiles’s heart started beating faster and his stomach sank, because he’d thought ticking the _no_ box just meant he could date other people outside the pack, but hearing it out loud, the meaning was clear.

Stiles wasn’t exclusive.

It meant other packs could claim him, and under the laws that governed Selection, he couldn’t say no without a damn good reason.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered, as it all clicked into place. As soon as he turned eighteen, Stiles had been added to the national database for selections, and someone had obviously liked what they’d seen. He looked up to find Peter and Talia wearing solemn expressions. “I ticked the wrong fucking box, and now someone from another pack's made a claim, haven’t they?”

Peter’s scowl deepened and really, that was all the answer Stiles needed.

He was so, so fucked.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate times call for desperate measures  
> And Stiles really is desperate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the usual disclaimers- any lurking typos are a problem for future me, and no, I don't know when the next update will be, because real life in retail plus the silly season equals no spare time.  
> Still, I'll do my best!

It was Stiles who broke the silence. “So how screwed am I, exactly?”

Peter sighed. “Utterly. Do you remember me telling you that the contract was legally binding, Stiles?”

Stiles did remember, and he also remembered that he’d been too stubborn to ask for help. He was suddenly, irrationally, annoyed at Peter, because that seemed like a better alternative than being annoyed at the person who really deserved it—himself. “Yeah well, _you're_ the Left Hand, and _you’re_ the one who’s a lawyer. Why didn’t you check what I wrote?”

Peter sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose, but it was Talia who answered. “There are strict rules regarding the pack having any sway over your choices, Stiles. If you’d invited Peter to look over your contract he would have been able to clarify the meaning of the question. Since you didn’t, he was bound by the Selection laws, unable to influence your answers or comment on your choices in any way. Unless we have permission from the Selection candidate to look it over, our hands are tied.”

Some of Stiles’s anger drained away. He really had done this to himself. “So if I’d asked, he would have been free to tell me what I was signing up for?”

“Exactly, which is why I _offered to help_ ,” Peter huffed.

“Yeah well, you could have just asked to see,” Stiles snapped and oh, okay, he was still pissed after all. “Maybe said, _Hey Stiles, I’m a lawyer, want me to check that?_ ”

“No he couldn’t,” Talia interrupted. “The rules are clear. The selection is to fill out their contract uninfluenced. They can ask for the papers to be looked over, but the most we’re allowed to offer is assistance with understanding the questions. It’s for your own protection.” It was clear her patience was running out. “Regardless of why this happened, it _did_ happen, and now we have a situation where an outside pack is making a claim. We need to work out how we’re going to handle it.”

“Are you sure we can’t just tell them it’s a mistake and say no?”

“Oh, _genius!_ Why didn't we think of that!” Peter exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “Problem solved! I’ll just call Verna McCluskey shall I, tell her ' _sorry, but our boy doesn't want to move to Nebraska, no hard feelings._ ' She’ll probably be so embarrassed at the misunderstanding that she’ll send us a fruit basket!”

“Wait. _Nebraska?_ ” Stiles paled.

“Nebraska,” Peter confirmed darkly. “And I’m afraid it gets worse.”

“How the fuck can it get worse that _Nebraska?"_ Stiles demanded.

“Peter’s just being dramatic,” Talia started, but Peter shot her a look and she fell silent, which did nothing for Stiles's nerves at all.

Peter turned and faced him, then reached out and took hold of Stiles’s hands, rubbing his palms comfortingly over his wrists, and that more than anything, Peter being _nice_ , had Stiles terrified. ”Do you want it sugar coated, or shall I rip the bandaid off?” Peter asked quietly.

Stiles bit his lip, torn, but in the end he said, “Just tell me,” because the not knowing was surely worse than anything Peter could tell him.

Peter took a deep breath, and when he spoke his words were clipped. “Alpha Verna McCluskey from Nebraska has let it be known they intend to put a claim in on you at the earliest opportunity. She wants you to partner with at least one of her daughters, possibly more. They’re desperate to expand their pack and they won’t take no for an answer, not unless we can prove a previous claim, which we can’t.”

“But—does she know I’m gay? I can’t mate a McCluskey!” Stiles could hear his voice climbing to a near hysterical pitch, but he was helpless to stop it. Peter rubbed a thumb over his wrist again, grounding him—for all the good it did when he spoke again.

“She knows. She just doesn’t care. They're traditionalists. It’s all about the good of the pack." He hesitated. “When I say traditional, I mean it. Once you move there, they’ll expect you to cut contact with all family and friends from your old life. And they don’t like pack members attending college. To put it bluntly, she wants to put you to stud.”

Stiles’s stomach churned at the thought of being sent halfway across the country to father a string of werewolf babies. “I don’t want this,” he whispered. “I want to stay here. I want to go to college, and I want to be able to come home and visit my dad.”

“I’m so sorry, Stiles,” Peter said, and Stiles could tell he meant it. “We’ll do our best to get you out of this.”

It was just words, but it still made Stiles feel a bit better, that the pack was willing to try. “Maybe she’ll meet me and hate me,” Stiles said, forcing a weak smile. “You did.”

Peter arched a brow and looked honestly offended. “I did not! I just found you extremely irritating. There’s a difference.”

“Oh well, that’s okay then. Seriously, though, if I’m a big enough pain in the ass do you think I can scare her off?” It was a nice thought, that he might be able be get out of this by being as irritating as fuck.

Peter’s lips thinned. “I wish. But Verna doesn’t care about personal preferences. It’s all about the collective good. Even if she can't stand you, she’ll take you, because you’re a good choice. Any pack would be lucky to have you.”

He seemed to notice that his thumb was still running back and forth over Stiles’s wrist, and he carefully placed Stiles’s hand back in his lap and scooted his chair back. Stiles traced his own thumb over the path of Peter's, still able to feel the heat of his touch.

“How long do we have, anyway?” Stiles asked.

“She’ll be here next week to initiate formal talks,” Talia replied, face grim, “We need a solution by then.”

Peter cleared his throat. “So now, we look at any possible options to stop the claim going forward, because personally, Stiles, I’d like to keep you.”

Stiles took a deep breath and nodded, feeling slightly more confident. Sure, it was bad, but between them, surely they’d figure it out.

* * *

An hour later, his optimism was fading as he watched Talia pacing the carpet in front of the desk. She and Peter had gone back and forth over possible solutions, but so far they were all flawed. “I’m telling you here _must_ be a loophole!” Talia threw her arms out in front of herself for emphasis.

“And I’m telling you there isn’t!” Peter snapped. “Stiles doesn’t have a specific skill that we can lay claim to as a specialty, and he’s not attached to a pack member, because none of your damn children know how to court the boy!”

 _“I’m aware!”_ Talia shouted, and her eyes flashed. “But don’t you _dare_ try and blame them for this situation.”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not blaming them. I‘m merely pointing out that none of them went on more than one date, which makes it incredibly difficult to claim a blossoming relationship.”

Stiles had retreated to the couch in the corner of the office, and up till now he’d kept quiet as they argued over the best way to keep him, unsure if he felt more like a prize milker at the fair or the star draft on a football team. (He wanted to believe the latter, but the former was probably closer to the truth.)

Now though, he spoke up. “Wait, we can claim a potential relationship?”

Peter nodded. “If certain criteria are met, then Verna’s claim is superseded by a pack member’s prior intention to mate.”

Stiles was just about to ask what criteria, exactly, when there was a soft knock at the door and Derek poked his head in. “Mom? Dad says dinner’s in the warming drawer when you want it. Should I bring it up?”

Talia stopped pacing and arched her back, stretching. “Maybe have him send something light up. We could be a while.”

“Any progress?” Derek asked, brows drawn down in concern. Talia sighed and shook her head.

Stiles curled in on himself, and Derek noticed, because of course he did. He came over and ran a hand through Stiles’s hair, scenting him. Stiles leaned into the touch. “Can’t I just pretend I’m dating you?” he asked wistfully.

“I’d do it in a heartbeat if that would help, but we haven't even been on a date. The Nebraska pack would reject it out of hand,” Derek said, his face etched with regret.

Peter sat up in his chair suddenly. “You have, though. Been on dates.”

Stiles frowned. “Pretty sure I’d remember if I had.”

Peter got a gleam in his eye and started ticking off on his fingers. “Car shopping. Grocery shopping. Tacos. Fried chicken.”

“They wouldn’t buy it,” Derek said staunchly. “It was only two outings, and neither of them were traditional dates.”

Stiles slumped in his chair. His disappointment as the spark of hope was extinguished must have shown because Derek crouched down in front of his chair and said, “Stiles, if I thought this would work I’d say yes, but we only get one shot at protesting the claim.”

“Could we like, speed date?” Stiles tried, because right now Derek was looking pretty damn tempting if he was honest.

Derek shook his head. “It wouldn’t pass muster. The dating has to be prior to the claim.”

“So right now my romantic choices boil down to this. If I stay here I’m single because I’m not good enough for the mighty Hales, and If I go to Nebraska I’m a sperm donor,” Stiles grumbled. “No wonder I wanted to be able to date outside the pack.”

“Oh boo hoo, poor Stiles can’t find someone who lives up his high standards,” Peter said dismissively. “We have bigger problems right now than your lack of love life.”

“No, the _biggest_ problem we have is my lack of love life, because apparently I don't have enough of one to keep me from being shipped off to Nebraska!” Stiles snapped, stung. “You’re the famous Left Hand.” Stiles made air quotes.”Why haven’t you come up with something?”

The notebook Peter had been scribbling in came sailing toward Stiles’s head, only missing because Stiles ducked in time. “It’s not my fault you’re so insufferable nobody wants to be saddled with you!”

“You’re not even trying!” And sure, Stiles was tired and frustrated and a whole lot afraid, but even as he said it he knew he’d crossed a line.

Peter was on his feet in seconds. “Don’t you _ever_ accuse me of not giving my all for this pack,“ he said, eyes blazing. He stormed across the room and snatched up his notebook, throwing it open and pointing to a weird sort of graph he’d been drawing, a jumble of names and dates. “I’m not even sure why I’m bothering to explain, but for your information there are only certain conditions that allow a challenge, and while you’ve been over here in the corner sulking, I’ve been trying to figure out if by some miracle you managed to meet those requirements while were flirting your way through the pack.”

There was a moment of charged silence, and then Stiles ducked his head. “I’m sorry. That was a shitty thing to say.”

Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Yes, it was,” he said. “So par for the course for you, really.”

Stiles scowled. Peter couldn’t even accept an apology without being a dick. “I _said_ I was sorry!”

“Oh well let me fall at your feet in gratitude!” Peter exclaimed, and then the asshole _legitimately_ sprawled at Stiles's feet, clutching dramatically at one of his ankles. Stiles kicked him in retaliation.

“Oh my god. Maybe _you_ should marry him Peter. You already bicker like an old married couple!” Derek huffed out, stepping over Peter’s body.

“We do not!” Stiles and Peter protested in unison. Stiles took the opportunity to kick Peter again while he was distracted.

Talia, who’d been slumped in her chair behind the desk, stood bolt upright and pointed at Derek.”Say that again,” she demanded.

Derek’s brow furrowed. “What, that they bicker?”

“No, that Stiles should marry Peter,” Talia said. She held out her hand. “Show me the chart.”

Derek raised an eyebrow at his mother, and a slow smile spread across his face. “Oh my god, Mom. You're a genius. This could totally work.”

“What? What could work?” Stiles asked.

Derek beamed at him. “You can marry _this_ asshole.” He hauled Peter up off the floor and slapped him on the back as Stiles’s brain screeched to a halt. Peter?

_Peter?_

No.

Peter obviously felt the same, scowling at Derek as he slapped the notebook into Talia’s palm.

“But we haven’t dated,” Stiles said, because that seemed marginally less rude than _I’d sooner be poked in the eye with a fork._

Talia got that gleam in her eye, the one that Stiles never quite trusted, and she ran a finger down the spine of the notebook. “Oh, but you have.”

“Talia.” Peter’s voice was a low growl. “Surely you can’t expect—”

Talia held up a hand and he fell silent, slumping sullenly into his chair and folding his arms over his chest.

Stiles swallowed, not sure if he was allowed to speak or not, but in the end the words burst out of him. _“When?_ When have we dated?”

It was Derek who held out a hand, grinning as he ticked off his fingers. “Movies. Fried chicken. Italian. Tacos. Car shopping.”

Talia nodded, scribbling madly in the notebook. “While my brother was diligently listing everything that could conceivably be considered a date, he neglected to list _himself_ as a potential candidate because he was chaperoning. Derek’s right, though. He’s been out with you more than enough times to make it count.”

Peter ran a palm down the side of his face, uncharacteristically quiet. Stiles waited for him to protest, to say that none of those were dates. Instead, Peter gave a rueful smile. “You’re right, Tee. I was looking so hard that I missed it. I’m an idiot.”

Stiles’s mouth dropped open. “Wait, what are you saying?”

Talia’s smile was almost gleeful. “I’m saying that with a little jiggery-pokery, we might actually be able to make a case for an existing claim.”

“But I’d genuinely have to be married to _Peter?”_

Talia’s smile dimmed. “If you want to prevent any future claims? Yes. Even though we’re fudging the dating history, you’d be committing to being Peter’s partner.” She paused, her voice soft. “Wolves mate for life, Stiles.”

Stiles sat down in his chair and buried his face in his hands, breathing through the enormity of that. A minute later fingers carded through his hair. Derek, probably.

Except it was Peter’s voice close to him. “I’m aware it's not what either of us would have chosen, but needs must when the devil drives.”

It wasn’t the outright refusal he’d been expecting. Stiles peeked out through his fingers to find Peter giving him a considering look. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

Peter smiled softly. “In this instance? It means that despite our differences, we grab at this opportunity to keep you in our pack, because anything’s preferable to Nebraska. Did I mention Verna has _five_ daughters?”

“Stiles, it’s the best we can do,” Talia said. “Once the Nebraska pack is satisfied the claim is genuine you and Peter can live independent lives if you wish, but you _do_ have to marry him for this to work.”

“And I won’t ever be able to find anyone else,” Stiles said, as the gravity of what he was contemplating hit him.

“Neither of you will,” Talia said gently and great, now Stiles felt like an asshole, because he hadn’t even considered how this would affect Peter.

The wolf was still running his fingers through Stiles’s hair, and it struck Stiles that Peter was taking this with a lot more grace than Stiles was, and the least he could do was try and return the courtesy. He reached up and wrapped a hand around Peter’s wrist, stilling his movements, and tilted his head back. “You’d do this? For me?”

Peter arched an eyebrow. “I thought we’d already established that I’ll always do what needs to be done for the pack? Or did that fact fly out of your pretty little head already?”

Stiles summoned up a smile. “Aw, you think I’m pretty.”

Peter rolled his eyes, “Yes, sweetheart. I think you’re pretty.”

Stiles took a deep breath and said to Derek in a slightly shaky voice. “My future husband called me pretty.” The hand in his hair tightened, just for a second.

“We still have to make sure we’ve met the requirements,” Peter warned.

Talia held up her own hastily scribbled chart. “From what I can see, we’re pretty well covered. I really think this is the solution to our problem.”

“Yes,” Peter said softly. “Yes, I think it is.” He crouched so he was in front of Stiles’s chair and they were eye to eye. “What do you say, Stiles?”

Stiles thought about spending every day for the rest of his life in a strange place, about being married to a woman he’d never met, about fathering children he'd never wanted, and about never seeing his dad again.

And then he looked at Peter, whose hand was now resting on the back of Stiles’s neck, a comforting weight. He might be an asshole sometimes but at least he was handsome, and he was smart, and most importantly, Stiles could trust him. Better the devil you know, right? And hey, his dad could always threaten Peter with wolfsbane bullets.

Speaking of which.

Stiles took a deep breath. “My only question,” he said, “is how the hell do I tell my dad that I just agreed to marry the Left Hand?”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aliiive! I survived retail Christmas and new years hell and Steter secret santa and finishing a book, and I finally had time to get back to this. I missed these idiots!  
> As always, this is not exactly what I had planned, but Peter.  
> As always, barely edited, and any errors are a problem for future me.

“You’re marrying _Peter?_ ”

“Um, unless I want to be put out to stud with another pack? Yeah.”

John let out a groan and Stiles waited for his dad to berate him for not reading the paperwork properly, like Stiles hadn’t already spent the evening beating himself up. But instead, his dad just said, “Can you back up the claim?”

“What?” Stiles said, caught off guard.

“Can you back up the claim?” his father repeated, eyebrows raised. “From what I know, there has to be dating history. Can you guys fake that?”

It was Peter who spoke up. “I believe we can. We’ve had enough incidental interactions that can pass muster as courtship, if the lighting’s just right and you don’t look too closely.”

“Good,” John said, “because like hell is my kid getting dragged off against his will by another pack. Whatever you have to do to make this happen, you go ahead and do it.”

“We appreciate your understanding, John,” Talia said. “I understand this must come as a shock.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” John said drily. There was a dark scruff of overnight stubble across his jaw and dark circles under his eyes, the result of coming here straight from night shift. He hadn’t questioned it when Stiles had texted him last night telling him he needed to see him urgently, would have left the station there and then if it hadn’t been a madhouse down there, and Stiles felt a pang of guilt for the bullshit he was putting his dad through.

“I’m so sorry, Dad.”

John’s brow creased. “What for?”

“Dragging you here when you should be asleep. This whole...mess.” He made a vague gesture between himself and Peter.

John fixed him with a look. “Don’t you dare apologize for needing me, kid. Night shift or not, you call and I’ll be here.” Stiles nodded, feeling the pressure in his chest ease and a whole lot of appreciation for his dad right now. “As for ‘ _this whole mess”_ John continued, making air quotes, “sure, it’s out of left field, but there was always a chance you’d marry into the pack. And let’s be real, marrying Peter sure as hell beats the alternative. The only thing I care about is if you’re okay with it. Are you?” He raised an eyebrow, waiting for an answer.

Stiles bit his lip. In the time between the decision being made last night and his dad turning up this morning, Stiles had had time to get used to the idea, and he was shocked to discover it didn’t distress him as much as he’d first thought it would. Given the option of either marrying Peter or being sent away, it was a no brainer. “I’m good with it,” he said. “It’s not ideal, but it means I get to stay here with you. And Peter’s not terrible.”

“Not terrible? Sweetheart, stop. You’ll make me blush with such lavish praise,” Peter drawled.

“Listen, not terrible is an upgrade for you, so I’d take it,” Stiles snapped.

“You two might wanna work on your act if you’re planning to pass yourselves off as love’s young dream,” John commented, before hauling himself to his feet. “I gotta go get some sleep, kid. I’ll call you later?”

“Yeah," Stiles said, standing as well and pulling his dad in for a hug. “Love you pops,” he mumbled into John’s collarbone, the familiar smells of his dad’s cologne and laundry detergent washing over him.

“I love you too, but you’re not allowed to sign for so much as a library card without supervision from now on,” his dad said with a sigh. Any sting to the rebuke was soothed, though, when his dad ruffled Stiles’s hair and squeezed him tight. “You sure you’re okay with this? Cause if you’re not, I know some people— “

Talia cleared her throat pointedly. “Tempting as that is, we don’t want a pack war, which is what would result from any unfortunate accidents befalling the visiting pack. Believe me,” she added quietly, “Peter already considered it.”

Stiles really shouldn’t have been touched by that, but it still gave him a warm glow that his pack was prepared to go to such lengths to keep him, and he grinned into his dad’s shoulder before pulling back from the hug so his dad could leave.

“Why are they still coming to visit?” John asked. “I assume you contacted them and told them Stiles is spoken for?”

Talia sighed. “I did. I emailed them and told them that Peter was going to claim Stiles. Normally that’s all it would take, but Verna’s being stubborn and refusing to concede. Her response was that she’d believe it when she saw it with her own eyes.”

“Hey!” Stiles protested. “It’s not that unlikely that someone would want me! I mean, _they_ wanted me!”

Talia’s face did something complicated, like she was trying to hide a smile but couldn’t quite manage it. “Oh, that’s not the part they found unbelievable. No, the thing they have trouble with is that anyone would willingly marry Peter.”

Stiles couldn’t hold back a snort as Peter scowled and said, “I’ll have you know that I'm quite the catch! Handsome, intelligent, cultured— “

“You’re also notoriously single,” Talia chimed in. “You haven’t been on a date in over a year and here you are, suddenly fawning over a Selection? You can see why they’re suspicious.”

Peter’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “I have standards, that’s all. And luckily for the pack, Stiles happens to meet them.”

He did? That was news to Stiles. “Wait, are you saying you actually _like_ me?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I’m saying that all the things that the pack looks for in a selection are what I look for in a partner. If I was going to fall for a Selection, it’s not inconceivable it would be you, even though you can be an irritating brat at times.”

Stiles wasn’t sure why he was disappointed in the glib answer, but the sting was unexpected. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that it didn’t matter _why_ Peter was willing to do this - the main thing was that he was going to get to stay in the pack and in Beacon Hills. He’d worry about the rest of it later. “I’ll try not to irritate you while the McCluskeys are here, Scouts’ honor,” he said, holding up two fingers in what he hoped was something close to the right formation.

“Should I mention that you got kicked out of Scouts?” his father reminded him, ruffling his hair again.

Peter’s eyebrows raised. “Dare I ask?”

Stiles groaned, but his dad’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “He was ten. They were studying ropework, and Stiles wasn’t a fan of the troop leader. So he practiced all kinds of knots and then he tied the troop leader to a tree and left him in the woods. Claimed if the man was any kind of scout leader a ten year old shouldn’t have been able to get the jump on him, and that he should have been able to get himself free.”

Stiles waited for Peter to deliver some kind of cutting remark, tell him he wasn’t surprised Stiles had been a terror as a child or the like, but instead, Peter’s face split into a wide grin. “You were right to expose his incompetence, Stiles. The man shouldn't be in charge of small children if he can't extricate himself from a simple kidnapping attempt."

“That’s what I said!” Stiles told him. “But it was all _anarchistic tendencies_ and _traumatizing volunteer workers_ and, well. That was the end of me threading my woggle.”

“You know Stiles, that anarchistic streak of yours is actually perfect for the mate of the Left Hand. We may be able to claim this as a match made in heaven after all,” Peter said.

“Or in the parking lot of the burger joint next to heaven, maybe,” his dad said wryly, before clapping Stiles on the back and heading out the door.

“Or there,” Peter agreed, still smiling. He had a nice smile when he wasn’t being an asshole. Maybe if he did his best not to piss Peter off while their guests were here, Stiles might even get to see more of it. It seemed like a goal he should aim for, seeing as Peter was his future husband.

_Future husband._

It hit Stiles like a brick to the face then that he and Peter were getting _married_. He had to close his eyes and take a couple of breaths while he tried to get used to the idea all over again.

“Sweetheart?” Peter's hand was on his elbow, guiding him to a chair. “What do you need?’

Stiles threw his head back, eyes still closed, and whispered, “How about a hundred years or so to get used to the idea of getting married?”

Peter’s intake of breath was sharp, and when Stiles opened his eyes Peter was crouched next to him and his gaze was fixed on Stiles’s exposed throat. He swallowed without thinking and Peter’s eyes tracked the movement of his Adam's apple, and Stiles noted that his pupils were dark. It struck Stiles that he must make the very picture of submission to a werewolf right now, and Peter's reaction was enough to drag him out of his shocked state. Was Peter attracted to him after all? It was certainly something to think about, but it wasn’t something he wanted to explore right now, not in his alpha’s office. So he tipped his head forward, pretending he was unaware of the effect he’d had, and Peter released the breath he was holding ”Stiles?” he asked quietly.

Stiles gave him a weak smile. “I’m good. Just had a momentary…”

“Wobble?” Peter asked quietly.

“Wobble,” Stiles agreed.

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Would it make it any better if I courted you like this was real?”

Stiles thought back to how Peter had acted on his date with Paul, the way he’d pretended to flirt, and he didn’t doubt for a second that Peter would make it convincing. He couldn’t decide if it would be better or worse, to believe there was genuine affection when there was none, but after a moment’s thought, he decided. Better. It would be better, surely, to pretend Peter actually cared. After all, Stiles wasn’t ever going to get this for real, so he may as well take whatever pale imitation Peter was offering. “Yeah. I think it would. Go ahead, sweep me off my feet.”

Peter responded by leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, a move that left Stiles open-mouthed with its sheer tenderness. “Sweetheart, it would truly be my pleasure.”

Talia cleared her throat—Stiles had honestly forgotten she was there, lost in the fog of Peter’s closeness. “If you two lovebirds are done, maybe I can have my office back?”

“Of course,” Peter said, standing and taking Stiles’s hand and pulling him up. “My fiance and I are going out for brunch.” And then he led Stiles out of the office by the hand, and it didn’t even occur to Stiles to let go until they reached the car.

* * *

Stiles had to give Peter credit—he was pretty fucking smooth when he wanted to be. Even knowing it was all an act, he found himself blushing when Peter leaned over the table and dabbed at the hollandaise at the corner of Stiles’s mouth while murmuring, “There. Now I can see your pretty face.”

Stiles fixed his gaze on his eggs. This new, attentive Peter was going to take some getting used to, but Stiles found that he liked it. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“Anytime. Now tell me, have you had any thoughts about the wedding?”

Stiles choked on a mouthful of sourdough. When he caught his breath he said, “You mean in the twelve hours since I agreed to marry you? Shockingly, no.”

Peter hummed. “We need a claiming ring at the very least. Finish your meal and we’ll go shopping.”

Stiles screwed up his face. “Do I really need a ring?”

Peter tapped his fork impatiently against his plate. “Unless you want there to be any doubt that you’re marked as mine. Claim jewelry is a tradition, and the McCluskeys are very big on tradition.”

Stiles’s gut squirmed at the reminder that they hadn’t pulled this off, not yet. The other pack was arriving tomorrow, and if they rejected Talia’s assertion that Stiles was claimed, he’d be forced to leave with them. He guessed he really couldn’t afford to be precious about this. He tilted his head, thinking. “Does it have to be a ring?” he asked. “What about...a necklace or a choker?”

Peter looked faintly surprised at that. “I would have thought those options were a little old fashioned for you,” he said. “I know a lot of humans claim a necklace is barely a step up from a collar.”

“Yeah well, those humans don’t have the ability to lose small objects that I do,” Stiles said.

“I’ll tell you what, why don’t we finish eating and then I’ll drag you around jewelry stores and you can choose something. It’s a good opportunity to show you off as my intended,” Peter decided.

Stiles nodded. That made sense. “Just, nothing too flashy, okay?”

“Me? _Flashy?_ ” Peter clasped a hand to his heart in mock outrage. “There’s only one person at this table with questionable taste, Stiles.”

“Must be why I’m marrying you,” Stiles shot back, grinning despite himself.

“Careful, or I’ll drape you in Grandmother Hale’s collar,” Peter warned. “It’s ten pounds of metal filigree and a rainbow of gemstones, and it’s truly hideous. The McCluskeys would love it.”

“I’m good,” Stiles said quickly, and Peter laughed, warm and rich. It was a sound Stiles could get used to.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure we can find you something elegant,” Peter said. “You definitely have the throat for it.”

Stiles thought again of the way Peter’s pupils had blown wide at his exposed throat earlier, and he wondered how he’d react to something like a slim silver choker, maybe with a ruby or an emerald nestling at the base of Stiles’s throat. Not that he wanted to turn Peter on, he reminded himself quickly. It was just nice to know he could, that was all. He couldn't help but picture what it would be like, and he briefly imagined a shirtless Peter, all coiled strength and acres of muscle, gone weak at the knees at the sight of Stiles with jewels at his throat, begging to touch him, to taste— 

“ —tiles? I said we need to get going. Our guests arrive tomorrow, and you need to have something marking you as mine by then.”

Stiles flailed as he startled out of his unexpected daydream, and it was a miracle that he didn’t send the rest of his meal flying. “Sorry,” he said, heart racing. “I was woolgathering.”

“I’m not surprised,” Peter said with a wicked smile. “The thought of marrying me must be very distracting.”

“Believe me, you have no idea,” Stiles said fervently. “Shall we go?”

* * *

In the end, Stiles chose a delicate platinum choker with a single teardrop sapphire that sat nicely in the dip of his throat. “To match your eyes,” he told Peter, deliberately lowering his gaze and peeking coyly through his lashes. He’d decided that Peter wasn’t the only one who could play at pretending this was real.

“Brat,” Peter said under his breath, seemingly unable to look away. Stiles preened deliberately, playing it up for the sales assistant, and when she asked if he wanted to put it in the box he tilted his head, running a fingertip under the chain. “What do you think, Peter? Should I wear it?”

“Yes, leave it on,” Peter said as he paid the bill, eyes still fixed on Stiles’s throat. Stiles smirked to himself.

“Would you like me to take a picture?” the assistant offered. “To mark the occasion?”

It would have looked odd to refuse, so Stiles handed over his phone, smiled widely and held his arm out to one side, leaving a space for Peter. “Come on, Boo.” Peter shot Stiles a look at that, but he stepped in close and they posed for the picture. The woman was obviously an old hand at this, and the photo was everything Stiles would have wanted if this was real. 

He had his head tilted back showing off his new choker and grinning like he’d won the lottery, and had one arm around Peter's shoulders. Peter was wearing a small but undeniably pleased smile, head curled in towards Stiles’s collarbone like they were sharing some private joke. Which they sort of were, when Stiles thought about it. “Thank you, I love it,” he told the woman, meaning every word.

Just then Peter's phone buzzed with a text and when he glanced at the screen his brow furrowed. Peter tapped a message out quickly before shoving his phone into the pocket of his jeans and with a quick thank you to the sales assistant, he took Stiles by the arm and led him out the door.

“What’s up?” Stiles asked as Peter marched them towards the car.

“The McCluskeys are here. Talia says they're at the house waiting for us.”

“But they're not due till tomorrow!”

“No, they're not,” Peter said grimly. “I can only assume they’ve come to town early in an effort to disprove our claim. Talia wants us home now.”

There was a tiny crease between Peter’s brows and Stiles had to fight the urge to run his thumb over it and smooth it out. He managed to resist, barely, and settled for saying, “It’ll be fine. After all, we fooled the sales lady, didn't we?”

Peter paused with his hand on the car door handle at that. “We did, didn’t we?”

“And she sees couples in love all day, so we must at least look the part, right?”

“You make a good point,” Peter said. He hesitated and then walked around to where Stiles was standing. He stepped up close, backing Stiles against the car, and murmured, “I’m sure you’re aware, but wolves are tactile.”

“Um, yeah? Your pack are forever touching and sniffing,” Stiles said, lost as to where Peter was going with this.

“I just wanted to forewarn you that if we’re playing a happy couple, the McCluskeys will expect to see evidence of that.” Peter reached up and put a finger under Stiles’s chin, lifting it so they were looking each other in the eye. “I’ll be touching you and scenting you far more than usual. In fact, I’m probably going to kiss you. Are you okay with that?”

Stiles could feel the heat radiating off Peter, could smell fresh sweat and something else, something _wild,_ and he had an inexplicable desire to bury his face in the crook of Peter's neck. He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. “Uh, sure?” he squeaked out.

Peter hummed. “You don’t sound sure. Perhaps we should practice?” He leaned in closer, but he didn’t close the distance between them, not completely. It took Stiles a minute to figure out that he’d stopped because he was waiting for Stiles to make the next move.

If they wanted this to work, Stiles knew it had to look convincing. It was less difficult that he expected to lean in and close the gap between them. He gave Peter a hesitant, close-mouthed kiss. Peter’s lips were softer than Stiles expected. He pressed their mouths together for slightly longer and then pulled back. “Was that okay?”

Peter looked amused. “If we were twelve, yes. But if we’re going to fool anyone? I think we need to add some passion.”

And with that, he tangled a hand in Stiles hair, tugged him forward, and kissed the hell out of him.

Stiles’s eyes widened and he struggled instinctively, but Peter kept a firm grip, one hand clutching at the front of Stiles’s shirt and the other in his hair holding him in place, and Peter's mouth was doing all sorts of wonderful filthy things that Stiles hadn’t even known he wanted Peter to do to him up until now. He licked at the seam of Stiles’s lips and before Stiles knew it there was tongue in his mouth, prodding and teasing, devouring, unstoppable. The taste of Peter, his _mouth,_ the faintest scrape of his stubble, the heat of his breath, all combined to leave Stiles gasping when Peter finally pulled back.

“Now that,” he said with a wicked grin, “was a kiss that could fool the McCluskeys."

Stiles stared, stunned speechless. Peter’s smile fell away. “Sweetheart?”

Stiles held up hand to indicate he needed a second, and then scraped up what was left of his brains off the ground where they’d melted out of his ears at the sheer hotness of the kiss. “I think”—he had to pause for breath—“I think it should fool them fine.”

Peter beamed at him, and he was unbearably smug for the entire drive home. Stiles couldn’t even blame him. It _had_ been a hell of a kiss.

Hell, he knew it was fake, and it had almost fooled him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's interested in what DiscontentedWinter and I have been spending all our spare time working on, it's [this](https://bunnywest.tumblr.com/post/639969163428937728/socially-orcward-adventures-in-aguillon-book-3)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the McCluskeys. They're charming.  
> No, really.

It was after he’d parked the Shelby into the garage that Peter turned to him, suddenly serious. “For the record, I did intend to have more of a discussion about physical boundaries before Verna got here, but— ” he gestured towards the driveway where an unfamiliar SUV was parked, and Stiles nodded. He got it. “I really did feel we should at least have our first kiss before we met the other pack, so it didn’t come across as awkward or forced, but I hope I didn’t overstep.”

“What, with the kiss? No, it was—” _wonderful, amazing, hot like woah—_ Stiles swallowed, remembering the press of Peter’s mouth against his—“fine, really. More than fine, even. You’re really good at that.”

Peter’s expression turned pleased in an instant, the corners of his eyes crinkling attractively. “Thank you. I like to think I’m a man of many talents. So we can safely say yes to more kissing?”

 _Yes please._ “That, um. That should be fine.”

“And since we aren’t going to have another chance before we meet the pack, I wanted to ask what else you’re comfortable with, given that a certain level of intimacy is going to be necessary to sell this.”

Stiles took a minute to think about it. “You’re the one with the super senses,” he said finally. “You’ll be able to tell if we need to step up our game. So, maybe you can be the touchy werewolf fiance and I’ll be your shy human partner and just, I dunno, follow your lead.” A tiny shiver ran through Stiles at the thought of Peter putting his hands on him and holding him close, though he couldn’t have said where it came from.

Peter hummed.“That sounds like it will work. After all, the McCluskeys will expect me to be the dominant partner. Just try not to jump like a startled rabbit every time I put my arms around you.”

“I’ll do my best, as long as you do your best to stop sneaking up behind me. It’s not a good look to scare the bejesus out of your intended,” Stiles said.

Peter laughed. “I’ll promise I'll behave. Scout’s honor, for what it’s worth.” He winked at that, and Stiles’s nervousness eased. Oddly enough he did trust Peter in this, and not just as the Left Hand who wanted to keep Stiles in his pack. Peter reached over and squeezed his hand. “It’ll be fine, Stiles. We just have to convince them not to contest the Hale pack claim on you. I’m sure we can pretend to be besotted for a few days.”

“But it doesn’t stop there, does it? Stiles said. “This will keep happening until you actually claim me, and it’s all because I filled in that stupid form wrong.”

Peter reached over and took Stiles’s hand. “It was an honest mistake, and now we make the best of it. And really, am I such a terrible fate?”

“Better the devil you know, right?” Stiles said, and immediately felt bad when Peter’s smile faltered just for a second and he pulled his hand away, but then Peter’s smile returned, though it sat wrong somehow, tight and strained.

“Precisely,” he said. ”Now, shall we go and pretend we’re madly in love?”

****

The McCluskeys were settled at the dining table with glasses of sparkling water, but they stood as Peter and Stiles entered the room, as did Talia.

Verna McCluskey was nothing like Stiles had anticipated. He mentally berated himself for making snap judgements based on a name, because he’d half-expected a frumpy midwestern housewife dressed in flannel with grey hair and a baseball cap, and Verna was as different from that as it was possible to get.

Tall, poised, and elegant, Verna was impeccably groomed and built like a swimmer with long lean muscles, smooth dark skin and gorgeous chiselled features. Stiles assumed from their physical resemblance that the equally stunning young woman next to her was her daughter. Obviously the Hales weren’t the only werewolf pack who were all unfairly gorgeous. It didn’t mean Stiles wanted to go home with them.

“Verna, may I present my brother Peter and of course, Stiles. Peter, this is Alpha McCluskey and her daughter Hannah,” Talia said, before sitting back down. Her manner was deliberately casual, as though this was unimportant and the early arrival of her guests hadn’t thrown her at all. Stiles took a moment to reflect that his alpha really was awesome.

Peter stepped forward, one hand on the small of Stiles’s back, guiding him. “Pleased to meet you, Alpha McCluskey,” Peter said formally.

“Pleased to meet you, Alpha,” Stiles echoed quietly. He wasn’t sure if he should speak or not, but he figured it would be seen as more impolite to ignore a visiting alpha, and it seemed he’d guessed right when Verna acknowledged him with a small nod.

“Apologies for not being here, I could have sworn it was tomorrow you arrived,” Peter said lightly, his tone somehow simultaneously containing not a hint of accusation and a demand for an explanation.

It definitely managed to put Alpha McCluskey on the back foot. “Yes well, it wasn’t deliberate. There was an issue with the flight dates,” she stammered, and if that wasn’t a guilty conscience talking Stiles didn’t know what was. He couldn’t help but admire the way Peter had somehow taken control of the room with a single sentence. It was kind of hot.

“It’s perfectly fine,” Talia cut in. “Best to get this whole misunderstanding sorted out as soon as possible.” _Misunderstanding_ , Stiles noted—a much less fraught term than _dispute_ or _challenge._

“I’d like to freshen up after our flight,” Verna said, and Stiles could tell she was trying to regain her equilibrium. “Perhaps your selection can show us to our rooms?”

“Please, allow me,” Peter said smoothly, “ _Stiles_ is only human, and he’d struggle with both cases.” Stiles was grateful, both for the use of his name and Peter’s intervention. Left alone with the Alpha, Stiles would probably put both feet squarely in his mouth.

Talia must have been on the same wavelength because just as Verna opened her mouth, presumably to protest, she let out a little gasp. “Stiles! Come over here and show me what you’re wearing! Is that your claiming piece?”

As a distraction it worked like a charm, and Stiles was quick to play along. He sat on the chair next to her, tilting his head back and showing her his new jewelry. “Do you like it, Alpha? Peter chose it for me this morning.”

“A choker, how wonderfully traditional,” Talia cooed, running a finger along the thin strip of metal, “and that sapphire is breathtaking.”

“The choker was Stiles’s choice,” Peter said, “and how could I deny my sweet boy a single thing he desires?” He leaned down and brushed a soft kiss to Stiles’s temple, and Stiles felt his face burn. He waited for Peter to pull away but instead Peter crouched next to him and buried his face in the crook of Stiles’s neck, scenting him deeply, the tiny breaths of warm air against the dip of his collarbone making Stiles squirm. It was a claim of the most blatant sort.

Alpha McCluskey cleared her throat. “Our rooms?”

“Of course,” Peter said, blinking slowly as he pulled back and letting out a long, noisy exhale. He really was a hell of an actor. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll get you settled in.” He scooped up the two suitcases that were standing just inside the front door—bags that were far too big for an overnight stay, Stiles noted.

Peter led the visitors up the stairs and it was only once they were out of sight that Talia relaxed. She reached out and cupped Stiles’s cheek. “You did wonderfully,” she said quietly, “both of you. Keep this up and they’ll be gone in a day.”

“What if they’re not, though?” Stiles asked, thinking about the size of those bags. “I mean, what’s the protocol if they don’t believe us? Can they still make me go with them?”

Talia frowned, and a crease appeared between her brows in exactly the same spot that it did on Peter. “I don’t think it will come to that.”

“But what if it does?”

Talia’s expression smoothed suddenly and she said, “This is just a formality, Stiles. There’s no reason to believe your relationship isn’t real. After all, anyone with eyes in their head can see Peter adores you. And personally, I’m just happy my brother’s finally found love.”

Stiles mouth dropped open. “What?”

“I don't think you have any idea how much Peter cares about you,” she said, raising one eyebrow and reaching out to tap a fingernail gently on the sapphire at the base of his throat. “This? This says real commitment.” She moved her hand to ruffle his hair and then, oddly, tapped the top of his right ear.

It was then that Stiles heard it—the slightest scuff of footwear on floorboard from the direction of the stairs, and he got what Talia was telling him. Werewolf hearing.

“The sapphire is the same blue as Peter’s eyes,” he blurted out. “I want to feel like he’s with me even when we’re apart.” He winced at how fake it sounded even to his own ears, but Talia’s smile widened and she glanced over his shoulder, doing a creditable job of pretending she’d just noticed someone standing there. “Hannah! Did you get settled in?”

Hannah McCluskey stepped into the dining room and sat in a chair across from Stiles and Talia. “Yes, thanks.” She picked up her empty water glass. “I don’t suppose…”

“Oh, of course,” Talia said, taking the glass and heading towards the kitchen.

Hannah watched her go and once the door had swung shut, she leaned forward and dropped her elbows onto the table. “Just for the record,” she said quietly,” I don’t want to be your partner any more than you want to be mine. So I hope to hell this thing with Peter is real, because if my mother catches so much as a whiff of deception, she’ll press for her claim to be accepted.” She cast a glance to the closed kitchen door and leaned in closer, then dropped a wink and whispered, “So just between us, it _is_ a scam, right?”

“What? Uh, no, I mean,” Stiles stammered as his gut swirled and his chest tightened. He hadn’t expected Hannah to ask him directly and the sensation of being boxed neatly into a trap overwhelmed him. He couldn’t lie, not to a wolf, but he couldn’t tell the truth either, and he was sure that even if he didn’t speak his body language must be telling all sorts of tales.

He was saved from trying to answer when Talia strode back into the room and slammed Hannah's glass on the table. “First of all, how _dare_ you come into my pack house and imply this is some sort of deception?”

Hannah’s whole body stiffened at the Alpha’s rebuke, and she sat back up, all pretense at camaraderie abandoned. “It just seems very convenient that true love strikes the day after our pack has lodged a perfectly legitimate claim.”

“My brother,” Talia said coldly, “is the most arrogant, irritating, self-centred Left Hand to ever grace this pack. Does that seem like the sort of person who would put himself out for the sake of an easily replaceable _selection?_ ” She followed the question with a low, rumbling growl that showed exactly how insulted she was by the implication.

Stiles was plenty insulted himself, but he pushed it aside and told himself that now was a perfect time for him to just _shut the fuck up._

“No,” Hannah said. “It doesn’t. But Peter’s also notoriously stubborn and it’s possible he wants to win just for the sake of it. I mean, it’s not like Stiles is really worth fighting over.”

Peter's voice cut through the air. “You’d best keep your pup in line, Alpha McCluskey. While I’ll allow that my sister’s assessment of my character may contain a grain of truth, I won’t tolerate anyone speaking about my fiance in such a disparaging manner.” When Stiles turned he saw Peter standing at the foot of the stairs next to Verna, who looked like a child with her hand caught in the cookie jar. Peter’s arms were folded across his chest and his annoyance was clear.

“Peter!” Stiles stood and crossed the room without even thinking about it, seeking safety, because he’d come _so_ close to making a mess of this already, and he needed someone to stop him opening his mouth _right now._

He buried his face in Peter's throat and let out a shaky breath. Peter’s hand snaked around his back, holding him close. Peter tipped his head to the side to allow Stiles to nuzzle closer, and at any other time Stiles might have told him not to be such a creeperwolf, but right now Peter’s warmth and bulk was a reassuringly solid presence and he tucked himself in close, breathing in the scent of wolf. Peter stroked a hand down his back and made soothing noises, and Stiles felt the vibrations in Peter’s chest as he did so. It helped him get past the enormity of the fact that he’d very nearly fucked this up.

Peter lifted Stiles’s chin up with a fingertip and asked quietly, “Are you all right?” Stiles nodded, because he _mostly_ was, but Peter’s lips pursed. “Don't lie to a wolf, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Talia, if you’ll excuse us, I’m going to take my boy upstairs for a minute to settle, while you explain the basics of pack etiquette to our _guests_.” Peter fairly spat the last word out and with a hand on the small of Stiles’s back, he guided him up the stairs without waiting for an answer.

*****

“Drink this.” Peter held out a sports drink that he’d retrieved from Stiles’s mini fridge. Stiles licked his lips, only now noticing how dry his mouth was.

He was perched on the edge of the bed, hadn’t objected when Peter had steered him there and didn’t object now when Peter plopped down next to him. He took the bottle and twisted the top off, gulping down the contents. He tossed the empty bottle towards the trash can and missed.

Peter rolled his eyes and retrieved the bottle, throwing it and hitting the target effortlessly. “Showoff,” Stile grumbled.

“I’ll add that to arrogant, irritating and self-centred, shall I?” Peter said, the corner of his mouth quirking up, and it made Stiles feel a little better. Only a little, though.

“Is the whole visit gonna be like this? Me getting cornered and interrogated?”

“Of course not. I’m surprised they tried something so ham-fisted, to be honest. It just goes to show that Hannah’s a terrible Left Hand.” Peter’s mouth twisted in disapproval, but Stiles got the feeling it was more professional than personal.

“So if they’re not going to ask awkward questions, what are they going to do? Just hang around indefinitely till they find something suspicious?” Stiles asked, curious as to how exactly this would play out.

Peter gave a smug smile at that. “The fact they flat out accused us of lying works in our favor, actually. Now that they’ve shown their hand, we’re quite within our rights to address those accusations. We just have to show the receipts.”

“O-kaay?” Stiles said slowly. “I don’t see how that’s an advantage?”

Peter’s smile became sharper. “Sweetheart, I _have_ the receipts. Literally.”

“Yeah, you said something like that to my dad. Do we have enough though?” Stiles wanted to believe getting rid of the McCluskeys could be that simple, but if the last few days had shown him anything, it was that complications had a way of cropping up.

“Yes,” Peter said decisively. “I’ve assembled a comprehensive dating history. Once we present it, they’ll have no choice but to leave, with their tails between their legs.”

Stiles’s eyes widened. “Peter, did you—did you just make a _dog_ joke?”

Peter shrugged. “It seemed fitting.” He looked at Stiles, assessing. “Now, how long do you think we should stay up here while I comfort my poor shaken fiance from the scurrilous accusations levelled at him?”

Stiles snorted. “Scurrilous? Really?”

Peter clasped a hand to his heart and affected an innocent look. “I finally find the love of my life, and some chit of a girl dares say we’re not madly in love? I’d call that scurrilous.”

Stiles outright laughed at that. “I’m glad you’re so keen to defend my honor, but you can drop the act. Nobody can hear us in here.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I’m aware of that, thank you. Which is why this is a good chance for us to go over the details of our courtship, and get comfortable around each other, since we’re a couple.”

Right. A couple. Stiles had forgotten that part, so caught up in their current mission of fooling the Nebraska pack. But it wasn’t going to end there, was it? Stiles was going to be Peter’s permanent partner.

He wanted to ask how Peter felt about that, but he was also afraid of the answer. Peter had said he’d court him like it was real, and if Peter revealed how actually felt, it would destroy the illusion. _“It’s a burden I’m prepared to bear for the pack”_ wasn’t what Stiles needed to hear right now.

So he bit back the question and instead kicked off his shoes and shuffled back so he was laying on the bed with his back leaning against the headboard. He patted the bed next to him and gestured at Peter. “Get comfy, future husband, and tell me our love story.”

Peter only hesitated a moment before toeing off his boots and joining Stiles on the bed. “Well,” he said, reaching out and taking Stiles’s hand in his, “I think I was first attracted to you when you made that dreadful apology after you called me a dick.”

Watching the small smile on Peter’s face as he led Stiles through the carefully constructed lie of their courtship and feeling the warmth where their hands were clasped together, Stiles allowed himself to believe that at least some of it was true.

What other choice did he have?

****

Peter and Stiles stayed in Stiles’s room for most of the afternoon getting their fictional ducks in a row. Peter also took the opportunity to scent Stiles extensively, nuzzling at his throat and running his fingers through his hair. Peter even suggested he be the big spoon for a while, and Stiles found it less weird than he’d expected. In fact, it was kind of nice—Peter was an unexpectedly good cuddler.

Peter only pulled away when Stiles’s stomach growled and they remembered that they hadn’t had lunch. Peter was quick to head down to the kitchen, saying it was best if Stiles stayed off the other pack’s radar for now, just in case Hannah attempted to corner him again. He was back soon enough, bearing a tray loaded with cheese and crackers and assorted pastries. He handed Stiles an apricot danish.

“Thanks, my favorite,” Stiles said, glancing at the pastry.

“I’m aware,” Peter said, eyes crinkling with amusement. “By the way, Talia’s officially announcing our engagement over dinner.”

“Wow. Talk about doubling down.”

“It was my idea. I felt it was the best course of action to move this whole process along and hopefully show the McCluskeys they’re wasting their time,” Peter said.

“Do the rest of the pack know? That it’s, y’know.”

“ _Think,_ Stiles,” Peter said with an eyeroll. “The more people who know, the greater the chance someone will let something slip. No, they’ll be told that we’ve been quietly courting, and hopefully they’ll go with it. Our story is that the simmering tension between us is actually attraction. I was captivated, and proposed out of the blue.”

“You never did, you know,” Stiles reminded him.

“Never did what?” Peter asked.

“Propose.” Stiles shrugged.

Peter raised an eyebrow as he brushed a pastry crumb from Stiles’s chin. “I like you, Stiles. Marry me?”

Stiles felt an unexpected warmth run through him at the words and his cheeks heated up, which was ridiculous, but didn’t make his face burn any less. Peter was still watching him expectantly, and he managed to stutter out, “Uh, yeah. Yes.”

Peter’s face split in a wide grin. “Excellent. Now we have a proposal story. I asked you while feeding you pastries, overcome with affection at the sight of you with icing sugar on your face.”

“ I don’t have—” Peter’s thumb swiped over Stiles’s cheek and when he held it out it was smudged with white powder. “Oh,” Stiles said quietly, and his gut twisted with a sudden, aching need for any of this to be real.

*****

The announcement was met with a stunned silence. Peter and Stiles stood at the head of the table as Peter made a show of 'officially’ fastening the choker on Stiles and then pulling him close with an arm around his waist.

The silence didn't last long, though. Derek was the first to offer his congratulations, a wide smile on his face like he truly was happy for them as he said, “That’s fantastic news!”

Isaac’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Wait, how long have you two been dating?”

Verna’s head whipped up at that and she leaned forward like a shark who’s scenting blood, and Stiles had a split-second to question their decision to spring this on the pack before Derek nudged Isaac with his elbow. “I’ve been chaperoning them. But they were keeping it quiet because Peter would hate to admit he has anything as common as feelings.”

Stiles could see the moment the penny dropped and Isaac let out a snort. “Sounds about right.”

What Stiles didn’t expect was Cora whooping and slapping Derek’s arm. “Told you he’d pop the question! Pay up, twenty bucks!”

“What?” Stiles felt Peter’s grip tighten just for a second at Cora’s words before he sat them both back down.

“I bet Derek Peter would get his head out his ass sooner rather than later and ask you, but he said a proposal would take forever because Peter’s a dramatic bastard and he’d make you wait,” Cora explained gleefully.

“Yeah, you cost me a fifty, Uncle Peter,” Laura grumbled. “I didn’t think you’d propose for ages, what with the way you two were being all low-key. Who knew you had a romantic streak?”

“I have depths, and Stiles likes his privacy,” Peter said. “It serves you right for speculating.”

Verna McCluskey watched the whole thing and glared at Stiles like he’d personally pissed in her salad. “Of course, this is all subject to the status of our claim,” she said, addressing Talia.

“Your _invalid_ claim,” Talia said firmly. “And that's something we’ll discuss in the morning. Frankly, I understand your scepticism. We’ve all had our doubts in the past that there would be someone to meet Peter's exacting standards. But that doesn’t make this any less genuine.”

“It just seems very convenient,” Verna asserted. “Quite apart from the age differe—“

“Just because I’ve refused to settle doesn’t mean I haven’t found love,” Peter interrupted, voice hard. “And after waiting so long to find someone special, I have no intention of giving him up.” His top lip curled back in the beginnings of a snarl, and Stiles shivered at the hint of raw power.

There was a tense moment where Verna and Peter locked eyes, and Stiles was certain Verna would challenge Peter to a trial by combat or something equally ridiculous, so he did the only thing he could think of.

He tapped Peter’s shoulder to get his attention, and when Peter turned towards him, he leaned across and pulled Peter into a kiss. Peter’s eyes widened but then he got with the program, twisting in his seat so their mouths fitted together properly and returning the kiss. Stiles could feel Peter’s lips curving in a smile as he did so. It was short and messy and had the desired effect—Derek wolf-whistled them, both Talia and Michael laughed a little too loudly, and the tension was broken. Stiles pulled back and wiped a hand across his mouth, grinning. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s really hot when you get all possessive.”

His heartbeat was steady as he said it.

***

After that the meal passed without further incident, although Stiles was frankly surprised at how easily the pack accepted that he and Peter were together. Even Jackson winked at him and said, “Nice job, Stilinski. Bagged yourself a wolf.”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use hunting terms at the table, Jackson,” Talia said mildly. Lydia elbowed him in the side and Jackson looked sheepish, while Stiles just smirked and let Peter feed him another spoonful of dessert.

It was as the pack were clearing the table that Hannah stepped in front of Stiles. She leaned in and inhaled, which was frankly rude of her, but before he could object she pulled back and walked away, smiling to herself. Whatever she was up to, Stiles didn’t like it. He brushed it aside though and carried on into the kitchen, depositing his pile of plates. Talia smiled and told him that newly engaged people got a pass on dish duty.

He wandered into the living room where Peter’s hand landed on his shoulder and Peter steered him into a quiet corner. “Talia’s decided that we’ll walk Verna through our courtship tomorrow, and hopefully it’s enough that she’ll take the hint and leave.”

“Why are they even bothering?” Stiles asked quietly. “I mean, Hannah’s right. I’m no catch.” (Secretly Stiles thought he was at least a little bit of a catch, but he didn’t necessarily think he was worth traveling to Beacon Hills for.)

Peter sighed. “Because they desperately need new blood. Very few selections end up on the open database” — Stiles cringed internally— “and their pack structure is so archaic they’re struggling to get selections of their own.”

“You mean people aren't lining up to be put to stud?” Stiles asked with a wry smile.

“Shocking, I know,” Peter said. He went to walk away and then turned. “Oh, and sweetheart?”

Stiles’s stomach did that weird fluttery thing it always did when Peter called him that. “Yeah?”

Peter stepped close and pressed a kiss to his temple. “You absolutely are a catch, and don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.” And with that, he turned and walked away.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Waves* Hey, hi, I am alive, I have just been busy as hell - went on vacation, prepared for a book launch, wrote a valentine's day exchange fic, and finally, finally got back to this.   
> I've been waiting to write this chapter for a while, have rewritten the ending three times, and am now posting the damn thing basically unedited because otherwise it'll be another week. Please ignore all typos, I'll get back to them eventually, I promise!

When Stiles woke the next morning he rolled over and squinted at the clock. 5.10am. Almost too early to get up, but he could already tell he wasn’t going to get back to sleep, not with the way his thoughts were clamoring for attention. Not that he was surprised, what with today being the day that would decide his future.

If he and Peter managed to pull this whole thing off, he’d get to stay here with his Dad and his pack and his friends. If not, he’d get shipped off to Nebraska to be a breeding stud, and Scott was totally going to say “I told you so” before offering to hide Stiles in his spare room.

Fuck.

Stiles hadn’t told Scott about Peter yet. He sat up with a groan, debating whether to call now and get it over with. Of course the problem was, Scott had listened to Stiles bitch about Peter too much to easily accept that they were a couple, and the last thing he needed was a dubious Scott turning up on his doorstep, asking awkward questions and blowing the whole thing wide open—and he would, if he suspected Stiles was being coerced. Don’t get him wrong, Stiles appreciated the hell out of Scott’s protective side—just not in this case.

No, he decided. He'd wait till the McCluskeys were far far away, and then he’d break the news, and he’d ask Scott to be his best man when he and Peter finally got round to tying the knot at some point in the far, far distant future. Once Stiles had a recognized claim on him, there wasn’t any rush, and he and Peter had decided that the wedding could wait a while.

Say, a year or three.

Stiles contemplated hiding under the blankets for a while to see if this whole thing would magically go away while he slept, but now that he was awake he needed to pee, so he shuffled out of bed, visited the bathroom, took his meds, and then dragged on some clothes and wandered down to the kitchen.

It was still and quiet at this early hour, and Stiles started the coffee pot and let his eyes drift close as he waited, bending over and resting his head on his arms atop the counter, listening to the muted strains of birdsong. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, but he must have started to doze because the voice was unexpected.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Peter asked quietly.

Stiles opened one eye to find Peter sitting on a stool on the other side of the counter watching him, and took a second to appreciate the fact that at least Peter hadn’t put a hand on him and made him jump a foot in the air like he normally did. Maybe his asshole switch wasn’t fully activated this early.

Stiles flapped a hand. “Brain kicked into gear.”

Peter nodded. “Understandable.”

Stiles hauled himself upright. “What about you?”

Peter shrugged. “My brain’s always in gear, sweetheart. But I do like to enjoy some quiet before the chaos of the day.”

Stiles nodded his understanding, then stood and poured himself a coffee, doctoring it with milk and sugar. He held the pot up to Peter. “You have it black like your soul, right?”

Peter chuckled, “And bitter like my outlook.”

Stiles gave a snort and slid the cup across the counter. Peter took it with a murmured _thank you_ and then set about pouring himself some cereal. Stiles did the same, except while Peter had granola, Stiles went straight for the box of Cookie Crisps, doing his best to ignore Peter’s judgemental eyebrow.

“You know, Talia normally buys that for the children,” Peter said, prodding the box. “ _Werewolf_ children, whose metabolism can take the sugar rush.”

“I like to think of it as a vegetarian breakfast.” Stiles said, curling an arm protectively around his bowl. “Besides, I deserve sugar today. I’m nervous.”

Peter set his spoon down and laid a hand over Stiles’s. “You have nothing to be nervous about. This is just a formality, and there’s nothing to dispute. I do love you, after all.”

The unexpected declaration stole Stiles’s breath away for a second, until he remembered what they’d decided the day before while getting their story straight—that since Stiles lacked supernatural senses to tell him when someone was around, they’d keep the act up permanently to reduce the risk of discovery. So he pasted on a smile and said, “Even with my terrible taste in cereal?”

“Even with that, sweetheart,” Peter said, mere seconds before Verna and Hannah McCluskey glided into the kitchen, barefoot and soundless.

Peter let go of Stiles’s hand and stood. “Coffee, ladies?”

“The boy can get it,” Verna said, frowning at the sight of Stiles still sitting.

“Oh no, it’s my pleasure. Stiles takes some time to reach functional levels in the morning,” Peter said with a wink, and poured two cups.

Verna’s frown deepened. “Everyone in our pack is up by five.”

“How very arbitrary,” Peter said. “With a large pack like ours, we can afford for our packmates to work within their own circadian rhythms, rather than be forced to adhere to some archaic regimen that benefits nobody. We find everyone’s happier.” Stiles shoved a spoonful of cereal in to hide the grin that was threatening as Peter continued, “In fact, I believe my fiance was going to go and nap for a while longer, weren’t you sweet boy?”

Stiles nodded obediently, knowing it meant he could hide out in his room.

“So what, he gets up, then just goes back to bed?” Verna asked, lips tightening in disapproval.

“He got up to have breakfast with me,” Peter answered smoothly. “It’s something we like to do, start our day together.”

Stiles wanted to say something to corroborate the falsehood, but he didn’t trust werewolf senses not to pick a lie, so he just ate as fast as he could. Peter looked positively mischievous when he said, “Now sweetheart, shall I take you to bed and tuck you in?”

Stiles could feel his face heat at the implication, but the McCluskeys were watching intently, so he stood, leaned his head on Peter's shoulder and let out a yawn that was only partly fake, and whispered in Peter’s ear, knowing they’d hear, “Carry me?”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up but then he smirked, and with no warning scooped Stiles into his arms. Stiles squawked and Peter laughed, and then he carried Stiles out of the kitchen and up the stairs, and it was only when they reached the top that Peter set him down. Stiles’s heart was racing, not only from being carried up a flight of stairs, but from the unexpected thrill he felt at being pressed against Peter’s muscled chest and held in strong arms. He leaned against Peter’s side and let out a long, slow breath.

Peter took the opportunity to nuzzle at his throat and scent him, and Stiles guessed that meant they were probably still being watched. He tilted his head to the side to allow Peter better access and sure enough, he caught a glimpse of Hannah peering around the corner of the kitchen doorway. He caught her eye and waggled his fingers in a half-wave at her, and Peter caught the movement and huffed out a laugh, his breath hot against the sensitive skin of Stiles’s throat.

Hannah scowled and disappeared, and Peter gave Stiles a devilish smirk, then led him down the hallway to his suite.

And then, as promised, he tucked Stiles in, but because it was Peter and he was first and foremost a Hale and therefore a troll of the highest order, he ignored Stiles’s protests and used his werewolf strength to tuck the blankets in so firmly that Stiles could barely move, and he was reduced to lying there like a mummy as Peter pressed a kiss to his forehead, wished him sweet dreams like the asshole he was, and sauntered from the room.

It took him ten minutes to kick his way out of the blankets, but strangely enough he wasn’t even mad. In fact, once he was free, he could even admit that it was kind of funny.

Besides, it was probably payback for the sequinned shirt.

* * *

Talia’s office was barely big enough to hold the five of them who were attending the meeting, so Stiles found himself squished up close next to Peter, who had a folder in front of him and was wearing an honest to god suit for the occasion. He looked every inch a lawyer right now, and Stiles allowed himself a flicker of hope.

He knew that before he’d semi-retired and started practicing from home, Peter had rarely lost a case, and this was basically the same thing as mounting a defense, right? Peter had said as much himself, told Stiles it was just a matter of making the facts tell the story they wanted them to.

Still, Stiles reached out and squeezed Peter’s hand—partly for the look of it, and partly because he’d been in the pack long enough that the touching was second nature. Peter squeezed back and gave him a reassuring smile.

Verna looked pointedly at her watch. “Shall we start? I’d like to fly the three of us out tonight if I can.”

The low growl from Peter’s throat was unexpected, and Stiles found it low-key terrifying and arousing all at once.

It was Talia who said in a frosty voice, “Please refrain from implying you’ll be claiming my brother’s fiance. It’s inaccurate, as well as plain rude.”

Hannah, seated next to her mother, didn’t even try to hide her eyeroll. “I’ll believe they’re engaged when I see the evidence.”

Peter slapped a hand loudly on top of the folder. “Then you’ll be glad to know I have everything here for your perusal. Shall we?” And with that he flipped the folder open, turned it to face Verna, and slid it across the desk.

Verna flipped through the contents rapidly, frowning, before picking up the first piece of paper - a credit card statement with all the transactions blacked out bar a few. “What am I looking at ?”

Peter walked around the desk and leaned over her shoulder, and Stiles wasn’t sure if Peter meant to loom, but he sure as hell managed it. He tapped the paper. “Dates. There, dinner and a movie, and there, another dinner date.” He flipped over to the next page, and Stiles saw that it was filled with dates and times. “I made a list of every date Stiles has been on in his time with us, so we can get this over with.”

Verna read the list as Peter took his seat between Talia and Stiles, ghosting his hand over the nape of Stiles’s neck before he sat down. Stiles leaned back into the touch and made a satisfied hum, because he really did like it when Peter put his hand there.

Verna tapped the top item on the list. “You took Stiles to a zombie movie? That hardly seems your taste.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I enjoy a little unrestrained bloodshed as much as the next person,” Peter said, idly clicking his claws against the tabletop, “and I thought Stiles would like it.”

“It says here your chaperone was Matthew?”

Peter nodded.

“Since when has a child been a suitable chaperone?” Verna demanded. “I declare this date invalid, due to the lack of supervision.”

Shit. Was that a thing? Stiles shot Peter a worried look, but it was Talia who replied. “It’s supervision when the _Alpha_ deems it so. In this case, I knew Matt wanted to see that particular film, but he was underage. Sending him with Peter and Stiles as a chaperone meant I didn’t have to take him. I never did like zombie films.The date’s valid, Verna.”

Verna’s lips pursed. “We’ll revisit this later.”

“We won’t,” Peter said. “We went out with appropriate supervision, and a second date was discussed.” It had been too, Stiles remembered. Just not between him and Peter. “In fact,” Peter continued, “Stiles fed me on the date, which is another courting protocol fulfilled, I believe.”

Peter reached into his back pocket and pulled out something small and crumpled and orange. Stiles squinted, and he couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face as he recognised the item. “My Reeces!”

“And you kept the wrapper?” Hannah asked. “How convenient.”

“Call me sentimental,” Peter replied, “but it’s the first gift Stiles gave me, and I knew it meant we might have something special, a perfect combination in an imperfect world.” His eyes were soft as he spoke, and Stiles was almost convinced it was real.

He could suddenly see why Peter won all his cases.

“Fine, Verna snapped. “I’ll accept it.”

She ran her finger down the page before stabbing at an item. “Stiles went on a date with someone else? While courting you?”

Stiles’s brow furrowed. He’d argued against mentioning his disaster date with Paul, but Peter had pointed out that if Hannah had any skill as a Left Hand at all, she’d already know about it, and excluding it from Stiles’s dating history would look like they had something to hide and it might come back to bite them in the ass.

It looked like it was going to bite them in the ass regardless.

Once again though, it was Talia who stepped up. “Unlike your pack, we don’t restrict who our selections choose to spend time with. Paul asked, and Stiles said yes. Although,” she let amusement color her voice, “I suspect Stiles regretted that particular decision. It wasn’t the best of nights.” She raised her eyebrows at Stiles meaningfully and gave the slightest tilt on her head, and Stiles caught her meaning and ran with it.

“It was a disaster,’ he confirmed. “Paul was late, and I spilled wine all over myself and ended up wearing Peter’s clothes, and that made Paul jealous, and it was— yeah, he wasn’t for me,” he said. “Peter though? He was great. A real life-saver. He literally gave me the shirt off his back. Even got the hotel to get the red wine out of mine.”

“Well, someone had to take care of you darling, I couldn’t leave you dripping,” Peter said, leaning in and knocking their shoulders together.

“So you’re telling me Peter had dinner shirtless? I don‘t believe it,” Verna said.

“I was fortunate enough to have a cardigan that I was able to wear when I gave Stiles my shirt. It may have been a little revealing, but it did the job.”

Stiles couldn’t help but snort. “Just a little, yeah.”

“You liked it,” Peter said with a smirk. “What was it you called me again? _Tits McGee?_ ”

Stiles could feel the color rising in his face—he hadn’t told anyone that particular detail. Talia hid her laugh in a hastily disguised cough, while Peter grinned like the asshole he was.

Verna cleared her throat and then picked up a pen and drew a line through the date. “Regardless, even though Peter was there, it doesn’t count.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Peter agreed. “Stiles and I have no need of fake dates to make our case. And really, I’m grateful to my nephew. His poor behavior made me look good—not that I wasn’t already a catch.”

Stiles would swear his eyes rolled of their own accord at that and he worried that Verna would call him on it, so he covered it with, “Yeah yeah, you’ve got me now, you don’t need to gloat.”

“On the contrary, sweetheart,” Peter purred. “I’ve been lucky enough to win the affections of a clever, pretty, young man. I intend to shout it from the rooftops.”

Stiles’s blush deepened. If Peter kept this up Stiles was going to start believing it—but then again, wasn’t that what they’d agreed? That Peter would act like it was real?

Maybe he _should_ let himself believe it—and he should certainly try harder to make Verna believe it. So he leaned over and kissed Peter's cheek and said, “No, I’m the lucky one.”

Peter’s cheek curved up in a smile under his lips, and he reached out and covered Stiles’s hand with his. “Perhaps we both are,” he said quietly and for just a moment, there was something in his voice that Stiles couldn’t identify.

But then Verna cleared her throat, breaking the moment, and Stiles felt like he’d missed a chance, somehow. “The next date is also questionable,” she stated, tapping the pen against the page.

Stiles had to think for a second to remember what their next ‘date’ had been— oh, right. He grinned and said, “Peter bought me a car.”

“A purchase from pack funds doesn’t count as a courting gift, or a date,” Verna said.

“Of course not,” Peter said. “However, the dinner afterwards does. Derek was the chaperone.”

“It was absolutely a date,” Talia confirmed. “I recall asking Stiles afterwards how it went.”

Verna turned her focus to Stiles at that. “And how _did_ it go, Stiles?”

“It was pretty great. Peter made me laugh so hard I sprayed soda out of my nose, and then we went for ice cream. He’s weak for butterscotch,” Stiles said.

“Hmm.” Verna’s mouth turned down at the corners, which Stiles figured was a good sign since she didn’t draw a line through the date.

She did, however, circle the next item on the list. “Dinner again?”

“Mexican,” Peter confirmed blithely.

Verna looked from the list to the credit card statement and back. “It’s not listed on here. I can’t accept it without evidence.”

“Oh!” Stiles said. “That’s because I paid. Because third date, you know? As a”—he hesitated, as if he was struggling to recall the phrase, and hadn’t rehearsed these words a dozen times with Peter yesterday,— “reciprocal gesture, indicating I was willing to continue the courtship.” He moved his hand from under Peter’s and tugged his wallet out of his pants and produced the receipt, handing it to Peter who leaned over and slapped it on the desk right in front of Verna.

“Is this sufficient?” Peter sounded exactly as smug as he looked, and Stiles had a sudden, urgent desire to climb into his lap and kiss the smirk off his face. He pushed the desire down, chalking it up to the combination of Peter being hot in a suit and sexy as fuck when he was winning.

There would be no lap climbing. None.

Peter’s nostrils flared just then and he shot Stiles a glance, and Stiles knew that his stupid body was betraying him right now. He flushed and bit his lip, ducking his head.

“Right,” Talia said. “Now that’s been cleared up, shall I look up flights?”

“I don’t think it has been cleared up, not quite.” It was Hannah who spoke. “We’ve flown a long way and I have a few questions that I’d like answered before we leave without what’s ours.”

Stiles shuddered at the way she made it sound like Stiles was an object to argued over. Perhaps to them, he was.

Verna nodded in agreement and her smile turned sharp. “You really must think we’re stupid. A trip to the car yard, a dinner on the fly, a family day at the movies? Those aren’t dates.That’s not romance. There’s nothing here that couldn’t be written off as everyday occurrences.”

Peter leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “Have some of our dates been a little pedestrian? Absolutely. And that’s because Stiles is eighteen years old. It’s not like I can wine and dine him. But it in no way diminishes the affection I feel for him.”

Hannah snorted unattractively. “I’ve yet to see signs of this so-called affection. I want to talk to the pack members.”

“I don’t think that’s appropriate,” Talia said. “Peter and Stiles have chosen to keep their courtship private, and it’s unrealistic to expect a household full of busy people to recall every word and look they’ve exchanged.”

Hannah’s expression soured. “Fine,” she said, “I’ll just ask Stiles instead. If he can tell me one nice thing Peter’s done for him that can be construed as romantic. I’ll consider it.” She turned her gaze on Stiles expectantly. “So go ahead, Stiles. Tell me one thing the so-called love of your life has done for you.”

Stiles’s brain fizzed and sparked like a defective toaster for about five seconds, and he was just starting to panic when Peter reached over and traced a thumb down his cheek and said quietly, “Don’t let them rattle you, sweetheart. Take a breath, and I’m sure remembering something will be a piece of cake.”

Visions of cream, dark chocolate shavings, and fresh red cherry juice sprang to mind. Stiles had this.

“Birthday cake!”

Peter grinned, and Stiles knew he’d gotten it right.

Hannah’s gaze hardened. “Explain,” she demanded. “Getting a pack member a birthday cake is a common gesture.” There was a moment where Stiles saw that same streak of ruthlessness he saw in Peter, the mark of the Left Hand.

“Maybe,” Stiles said, “But this wasn’t any cake. Peter _made_ me a black forest cake from scratch, as a surprise. And then he um, he fed it to me.” He leaned against Peter’s side and looked up at him from under his lashes, just to sell it. “It had fresh cherries. It was amazing.”

Peter gave a soft smile.“You said I was your new favorite person.”

“And I meant it,” Stiles said, smiling back.

“Oh, that _is_ romantic,” Talia cooed.

Hannah screwed up her nose, as if to say _really?_ but Peter’s gaze remained impassive, and in the end she harrumphed out, “Fine, that’s one thing. What else?”

“He proposed with a danish. Well, not exactly with, but while he was feeding me one. Apricot, because he knows it’s my favorite. There was powdered sugar on my face, and he ran a thumb down my cheek and then he looked at me all gooey, and then he asked me to marry him. And it was romantic as _fuck_ , thank you very much,” Stiles added, driven to defend Peter’s courting abilities.

“Hmmm. I must say it all seems very one-sided,” Verna commented. “Other than one obligatory dinner, I see no indication that Stiles has done anything for Peter. The gift giving and affection is meant to be reciprocal.”

Stiles froze.

Fuck. She was right. Even Talia looked caught off guard. Peter though, just rolled his eyes. “Honestly Verna, the straws you’re clutching at could kill a raft of sea turtles.”

“One Reece’s doesn’t constitute a courtship gift,” she insisted.

Peter sighed. “No, it doesn’t.” He rolled to his feet, his movements fluid and elegant as always, and turned to Stiles. “Sweetheart, do I have your permission to show these two the other gift you got me? I’ll understand if you don’t want me to, and it’s entirely up to you.”

Other gift? What gift? Stiles didn’t remember getting Peter any gifts, unless he was talking about —

_Oh._

“You’d show them that?” he whispered.

“If it means they’ll accept our word? I’m happy to. I just wasn’t sure if you’d be comfortable with it. It does reveal the—well, the _nature_ of our relationship, somewhat.”

And then Stiles saw it, the slight curl at the corner of Peter’s lip that meant he was fighting back a smirk, and he decided what the fuck, he may as well roll with it. If Peter wanted the McCluskeys to think he was a sugar daddy, Stiles was going to enjoy the show. “I guess you can go ahead and show them.”

Peter put his hands on Stiles’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, and then he was gone, leaving Talia staring after him.

Finally she said, “Stiles, I’m almost afraid to ask, but what, exactly did you give Peter?”

Stiles ducked his head shyly, but it was mainly to hide his grin. “Wait and see. And no judging.”

“It’s not a—" whatever Talia was worried it was, she never got to ask, because at that moment Peter strolled back through the door. He was wearing a slutty v neck with _Pour Some Sugar On Me_ written across the front, in a looping script made of silver sequins.

Stiles had thought Peter would look ridiculous when he wore the shirt—not that he’d expected him to _actually_ wear it— but somehow, he managed to make it look sizzling hot, even when paired with his suit pants. The shirt was probably a size too small, but that just meant it clung across the shoulders and biceps in a very distracting manner.

The gift bag was dangling from his finger, and he tossed it at Verna in a casual manner that must have made her blood boil. She caught it and screwed up her nose as she read the tag aloud. “For my sugar...daddy?” Her eyes widened. “Oh. _Oh_. I see.”

Talia let out something like a high-pitched giggle.

Stiles ducked his head and blushed while Peter stood there, looking unrepentantly sexy. “Now if you’ve finished intruding into the most personal details of our life, are we done here?” Peter asked, standing with his hands on his hips.

“I for one think we’ve proved beyond a doubt that this is a genuine relationship,” Talia said with a nod, and a wave of relief ran through Stiles, because he was honestly done with this whole thing.

“Is it, though?” Hannah asked, and Stiles slumped back into his chair.

Peter let out a groan.“What _now?_ ”

Hannah was wearing a smirk that Stiles was certain that couldn’t mean anything good, and sure enough, she leaned forward on her elbows and said, “The thing is, you two don’t _smell_ of each other, not the way I’d expect a couple to smell. I don’t think you’re really together. And you’re certainly not having sex.”

She sat back, utterly triumphant, and Stiles wanted to strangle her. _That’s_ why she'd been sniffing him like a dog looking for a pole to piss on.

The room was silent, and Stiles had a sudden certainty that this was it, he was going to Nebraska to churn out little werewolf babies.

“Well?” Verna said.

Peter was the first to speak. “What happens in our bedroom is between us,” he said, his voice low and threatening. “It’s not a condition of courtship.”

“But you don’t _have_ a bedroom,” Hannah said thoughtfully. “I noticed you still have separate suites, whereas Cora and her human share one. And a teenage boy and a relatively attractive man who are supposedly in love, not even touching enough to smell like each other?”

Stiles could see a vein throbbing in Peter's temple, and he looked like he was about to either have an aneurysm or rip someone’s head off, and as much as Stiles was in favor of Verna being decapitated in theory, he wasn’t here for it in practice, so he blurted out the first thing he could think of. “We’re waiting till marriage!”

Hannah’s mouth dropped open and she stared, disbelieving, between them.

Peter shot him a look that might have been gratitude, took a deep breath, and said, “Yes. We’re waiting.”

Talia’s eyebrows attempted to escape into her hairline.

Verna’s lips pursed. “You seriously expect me to believe, in this day and age, that—”

“Um, can we not talk about this any more?” Stiles interrupted, blushing furiously. “Like Peter said, our bedroom, our business.”

Peter came close and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I really do think we’re done here.” He followed it with a growl, and Stiles laid a hand over Peter’s and nodded.

“We absolutely are,” Talia said firmly, standing to her full height. “We’ve been more than accommodating, Alpha McCluskey, but you're crossing the line. I think you should book those flights now.”

Verna stood as well. “I'm still skeptical, but I suppose I have no choice but to accept that this mating technically fulfils the requirements of a pack claim.” She extended a hand to Talia. “No hard feelings? I’ve been told we can come across as aggressive, but sometimes it’s the only way to acquire a selection.”

Talia raised an eyebrow and left the hand dangling mid-air. “I don’t know about in Nebraska, but in my pack, we tend to treat our selections less as objects to be acquired and more as, oh, _people,_ ” she said coldly.

“Something to keep in mind,” Peter added, “should you ever wonder why, exactly, your pack can’t seem to attract applicants.”

Verna lowered her hand. “Hannah, we’re leaving,” she snapped. “Get flights.”

Stiles resisted the urge to fistpump at Verna’s scowl, instead standing so he was bracketed by Peter and Talia. Peter’s hand slipped into the back pocket of Stiles’s jeans, and Talia’s arm crept around his waist as they watched the McCluskeys take their leave, and Stiles had never felt safer in his life.

It lasted exactly as long as it took for Verna to reach the door and pause, saying, “Of course, if you’re not married within the month, we _will_ be invoking the rule of claim limitation, due to having a valid secondary claim.” She smiled triumphantly and swept out the door, and the way Peter's mouth was hanging open couldn’t mean anything good.

“Claim limitation? Is that still valid?” Talia asked quietly.

“It is if you’re desperate,” Peter replied, just as quietly. “And if we don’t abide by it, they _will_ take Stiles, and be quite within their rights.”

A chill ran through Stiles on hearing that, and he pulled out of their grasp and turned to face them. “What, exactly, does the law of claim limitation mean? Because that sounded an awful lot like we have to get married in a month or they’ll be back.” He saw that both Peter and Talia had that little divot in the center of their forehead, the one that meant they were genuinely worried.

“The rule of claim limitation was originally set in place so packs couldn’t tie their selections down by way of extended engagements that took them off the market,” Peter said grimly. “It’s outdated, a relic of a law that nobody uses, but it’s never been revoked. If there’s a secondary claim on a selection and the original claimant hasn’t acted within a month, the second party is entitled to demand their claim take priority.”

Stiles felt the blood draining from his face, and he slumped into a chair. “So, we _do_ have to get married in a month?”

Peter sighed. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. If I’d been on my game I would have foreseen this. we could have chosen a wedding date and just kept pushing it back. But I never thought they’d invoke that law. Nobody ever does.” He looked utterly dejected, and Stiles wasn’t sure if it was because of their approaching wedding or or because someone had gotten the upper hand. Probably both.

Stiles swallowed. “Yeah, but a _month?_ ” He’d only just gotten used to the idea of marrying Peter in the far-distant future. A month, though, wasn’t the far-distant future. No, that was the _immediate_ future.

“Nothing has changed, Stiles,” Peter said quietly. “We’d just be moving up the timeline a little.”

“A little,” Stiles said, because he only seemed able to parrot back phrases right now.

It was Talia who crouched next to his chair and took his hand. “Stiles, I know this is a shock, but now that Verna’s pack has accepted Peter’s claim, if we get the ceremony out of the way you’ll be safe.”

He looked into her face, saw sympathy there, but also saw that the crease was still between her eyebrows. “I get it, I do. Just...gimme a minute?”

Talia nodded and stood, and Stiles rested his head on the desk, hiding his face as his mind raced. Nothing had changed, he reminded himself. It was all just going to happen a lot faster. And when Stiles really thought about it, if they went ahead and did this, at least the sword of Damocles wouldn’t be hanging over his head. He’d be safe, because he had no doubt that Peter would do everything in his power to protect what was his.

The thought of Peter as his protector was a lot more comforting than he’d thought it would be, truthfully, and it allowed him to calm his racing heart and mind enough to get himself together. He might as well accept this.

He stood, taking a couple of shaky breaths, and noticed he was shivering slightly. He wasn’t the only one who noticed, and the next thing he knew, he was enfolded in Peter’s arms while Peter ran a hand up and down his back quietly, soothing him. He went with it, let himself be comforted— they were going to be married, after all. The hand on his back would have a wedding band on it soon. He bit back a hysterical laugh at the thought of it and got himself back under control, breathing in Peter’s scent and soaking up his warmth.

It helped, and after a minute or two, when his world felt like its axis had tilted at least partially back the right way, Stiles finally mumbled against Peter’s collarbone, “Fine. Let’s do this.”

Peter pulled back and raised his eyebrows. “You’re taking this exceptionally well. I thought you’d be more upset, but you seem to be coming to terms with it rather quickly.”

Stiles shrugged. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure he _had_ quite come to terms with it, not yet, but he guessed this was happening whether he was ready or not, and Stiles had always been good at rolling with the punches. “Yeah well. Like you said, nothing’s really changed except the timing. No point in freaking out, right? Although I will say, that’s the stupidest law I’ve ever heard of. ”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Peter mused, even as the divot smoothed out a little.”There’s a law that you can’t let a donkey sleep in your bathtub in Arizona.”

Stiles snorted. Trust Peter to know that.

“You really are taking this well, both of you,” Talia said, watching them both with a bemused expression.

“Yeah, well. It is what it is. And according to Hannah my husband-to-be is relatively attractive, so there’s that.”

Peter’s lips pursed. “She was just trying to rattle me. I’m _very_ attractive.”

“Yes, the sequins suit you,” Talia said drily.

“Maybe we can get sequinned wedding suits,” Stiles said, grinning.

“Absolutely not,” Peter said.

“I’m going to go and check on our guests,” Talia said.

“You mean stand there while they pack and make sure they know they won’t be welcome back?” Peter said.

“That,” Talia agreed. “And you two can pick a date and start making plans.”

Stiles bit his lip.

Once Talia left, Peter turned to him, serious. “I really am sorry, sweetheart. I know we’d planned to put this off till after college, but— ”

“Needs must when the devil drives?” Stiles said.

“That,” Peter agreed softly, and Stiles was reminded that he wasn’t the only one affected by this. Peter was giving up his own freedom, the chance to choose a partner, in order to keep his pack safe, and it occurred to Stiles that he should probably be more grateful than he was.

“This isn't your fault,” Stiles said. “It’s Verna goddam McCluskey and her rabid sex wolves that are the problem. That, and my inability to read the fine print. Lucky I’m marrying a smart, handsome lawyer. You can look over all my paperwork in future.”

That earned him a tiny smile as Peter said, “I thought we’d established you’re not allowed so much as a library card without supervision.”

“But I do get to help arrange our wedding, right?”

Peter’s smile widened. “Yes, sweetheart. Now, shall we pick a date?”

Stiles took a deep breath and nodded. It looked like they were doing this.

Scott was going to lose his fucking _mind._


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Stiles go on an actual date. It doesn't go as either of them expected.

Stiles whimpered as Peter placed wet, warm, open-mouthed kisses across the skin of his belly, the hand wrapped around Stiles’s cock jerking him off at a maddeningly slow pace as Stiles’s hips bucked up into the touch, seeking just that bit more. “More, ’m so close,” Stiles begged.

“Shhh, sweetheart,” Peter whispered against his skin. “I’ll get you there.”

“Please, Peter,” Stiles gasped out, before Peter moved up the bed and kissed the pleas right out of his mouth.

His hand sped up slightly, just enough that Stiles could feel himself getting closer, but it wasn’t enough, and Stiles knew he had to do something to make his wolf as desperate as he was. Stiles broke their kiss and pulled back so that he could tip his head to the side, exposing his throat, and Peter let out a low growl before kissing down the expanse of skin, his stubble scraping softly, perfect against the sensitive flesh. “Are you playing dirty, sweetheart?” Stiles whimpered again, and Peter laughed against the curve of his neck. “My needy boy.” His grip tightened and he flicked a thumb over the head of Stiles’s cock, sliding it back and forth through the mess of precome that had gathered there. Stiles jolted and arched up into the touch, and then Peter’s hand was gone and Stiles was enveloped in the wet heat of his mouth, Peter’s forearm clamped across his belly, and it was too much, too good, and he was coming, oh god—

_BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP_

At the sound of his alarm, Stiles sat bolt upright in bed and flailed, breathless and disoriented.

The alarm continued to screech relentlessly, and Stiles fumbled for his phone and hit the stop button, the room falling into blessed silence apart from the sound of his own harsh breathing.

He reached out instinctively, but Peter wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t. He never had been. There was just Stiles, out of breath and alone, his sheets sticky like they hadn’t been since he was fourteen and had discovered how to bypass the parental controls on his dad’s laptop.

Stiles groaned and flopped back against the bed, his treacherous cock still twitching while the rest of him melted in a puddle of post-orgasmic hormones. It didn’t take long however for the tacky mess to cool and become uncomfortable, so Stiles dragged himself out of bed and into the shower.

As he stood under the stream of hot water and waited for his higher brain function to return, he wondered what Peter would say if Stiles told him he was the stuff of wet dreams. He’d probably just smirk and say he’d never doubted it for a second. Not that it mattered, because there was no way Stiles was ever telling him.

Nope. Never happened.

While he washed himself and shampooed his hair, he decided he was blaming Scott for this.

After all, it was Scott who, when Stiles had informed him that he and Peter were getting married, had gotten all concerned and told Stiles he must be mad to marry a werewolf, especially one so much older than him—the same werewolf who, Scott had helpfully reminded him, Stiles had distinctly said he wasn’t interested in—and so Stiles had been forced to list the reasons why, exactly he wanted to marry Peter in order to sell Scott on the idea of it being a love match.

It had actually been surprisingly easy to name Peter’s good qualities—like the fact that he could cook, had great taste and always looked perfectly put together, would go out of his way for anyone he considered his, was observant and quietly thoughtful, was a fiercely protective left hand, and of course incredibly intelligent. The fact he was frustratingly quick-witted just meant he was fun to bicker with, and even if Stiles came off second best more often than he was used to, he still enjoyed having someone to banter with. Plus, Peter at his sarcastic best was seriously awesome.

And it was only natural that the list included the fact he was hot, and maybe Stiles had gotten carried away describing Peter’s muscles and the way he looked smoking hot in a suit, his sexy smile and sexier smirk, his jawline, his stubble, his vibrant blue eyes, his strength, the sultry sway of his hips, his—well, his everything—including how good he looked shirtless.

At that Scott had jumped to conclusions, squawked, and told Stiles he didn’t want any details of his sex life. Then he’d made Stiles promise, _scout’s honor_ , that he was doing this because he wanted to and not because Peter was making him somehow. Stiles had sworn, because technically Peter wasn’t the one forcing him into this, and it had finally been enough to mollify Scott, who’d told Stiles he still thought he was insane, but that of course he’d be his best man.

Stiles had come home from the meeting mentally drained but reassured that at least Scott wasn’t going to stage some sort of intervention, and crashed out early.

Obviously, Stiles decided, his sleep-addled subconscious had latched onto his description of Peter’s assets and Scott’s use of the words _sex life,_ and combined them to create some sort of nervous sex dream, that was all.

It was a one time thing, and he wasn’t going to think about it any more, because he had school to attend and a wedding to plan. He took a moment to wonder how, exactly, he was living a life where that sentence made perfect sense.

They didn’t even have the luxury of a full month to plan—the wedding was in two and a half weeks.

Stiles had insisted they pick a date that worked around his dad’s shifts because like hell was he getting married without him there, and Peter had agreed immediately, which had been nice, but also meant they were on a time crunch. Thankfully, Peter had assured him that he and Talia would take care of the boring details, and Stiles could just help with choosing the menu and the suits. Stiles tried to imagine Peter planning a wedding. He’d be relentless. The thought was terrifying and arousing all at once.

Stiles stepped out of the shower and dried himself off, and once he was dressed and had taken his meds he stepped out of his bedroom—and straight into Peter, who was standing in the doorway, as solid and unmoving as an Easter Island statue, one hand raised to knock. Peter‘s nostrils flared and his eyes widened, and he wrapped an arm around Stiles’s waist, pulling him close.

Stiles blamed the fact he was still half-asleep and sex-drunk on the way he leaned into the embrace without thinking. Peter didn’t seem to mind, though. He rested his other hand on Stiles’s hip and held him there, and Stiles just enjoyed the warmth and solidity, tendrils of his dream winding in and out of reality for a few moments before he realized what, exactly, he was doing. He should probably let go, he thought fuzzily, and then he didn’t.

Peter let out a low chuckle. “Good morning, sweetheart. Sleep well?”

“Uh huh.”

“Pleasant dreams?” There was something knowing in Peter’s voice and when Stiles dragged his head away from the curve of Peter’s throat where he’d somehow nestled, Peter was smirking.

Stiles swallowed and said, “Do you always lurk outside closed doors?”

Peter gave a tiny shrug. “Sometimes, when it suits my purposes. But in this case, I wasn’t lurking. I was about to knock.”

He had been, too. It occurred to Stiles dimly that that was something he’d forgotten to tell Scott—that Peter had never lied to him, not once. “Yeah, that’s fair. What’s up?”

Stiles could have sworn Peter sounded almost nervous when he said, “I’m here because it occurred to me that perhaps we should go on some actual dates before we get married, and I wanted to ask if you’re free for dinner?”

Stiles blinked in surprise and contemplated the idea. That might actually be...nice. He toyed briefly with the idea of teasing Peter and saying no, but he couldn’t summon up the energy to be an asshole, not when he was still rolling in the afterglow of his stealth orgasm. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Peter smiled, soft and real. “Excellent. I’ll collect you at seven. Dress nicely.”

And then he turned on his heel and walked away as Stiles called after him, “What do you mean, you’ll collect me at seven? You live down the _hall,_ Peter!”

The only reply he got was the sound of soft laughter floating back up the stairs.

* * *

When Stiles made it downstairs, head still spinning at the thought of a date, the kitchen was in its normal state of breakfast chaos. He headed for the coffee pot but Peter had beaten him to it, handing a mug over with the milk and sugar already added. Stiles sat down and took a sip, and had to close his eyes to savor the unique moment of happiness that only a perfectly prepared cup of coffee can provide.

He would have stayed like that, but opened his eyes at a warm hand on his forearm. Peter was sliding a plate of scrambled eggs and sourdough toast in front of him. Stiles had to take a moment, warmth blooming in his belly at the unexpectedly thoughtfulness. “You made me breakfast?”

Peter gave a half shrug and slid into place next to him at the table with his own plate of eggs. “Someone has to feed you. Otherwise you’ll just eat sugar again.”

He hadn’t cooked for the rest of the pack, Stiles noted, which made that warm feeling bubble up even more. Peter probably just felt like eggs himself, but it was still nice that he’d thought to add extra for Stiles.

Peter bumped shoulders with him. “Eat up before they’re cold,” he said, and Stiles obediently took a bite while Peter watched expectantly.

The eggs were heavenly—silky and creamy, perfectly cooked, with a hint of fresh herbs—dill, possibly. “Holy shit, these are amazing! What did you do?” Stiles asked before shoveling in another forkful.

Peter ‘s expression turned pleased. “I know a trick or two in the kitchen.”

“Well if you even want to stop lawyering you could always cook for a living.” Stiles bit into the toast, moaning at the chewy crunch of the lightly browned sourdough and the saltiness of the melted butter.

“I do it purely for pleasure. I’d be a terrible chef,” Peter said, starting in on his own breakfast.

“Yeah, you’d be a dictator in the kitchen,” Stiles teased, still eating.

“Are you saying I have control issues?” Peter raised an eyebrow but he was smiling, so Stiles figured his ego had been sufficiently stroked by the praise for his cooking that he was willing to take a little teasing.

They finished up their breakfast, and Stiles put his hand on the back of Peter’s. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

Peter glanced down at where they were touching and back at Stiles, a fresh smile tugging at his lips. “It was my pleasure, trust me.”

Wolves liked to care for their mates, Stiles remembered. Peter was probably only doing this to fool his wolf, kickstart his instincts before they married. Still, it was _nice,_ a word Stiles hadn’t ever thought he’d associate with Peter Hale, and that warm feeling in his gut remained—partly perfect eggs, and partly the idea that Peter was doing his best to make this easier for both of them.

Peter stood and grabbed their plates, and a quick glance at the clock told Stiles he’d have to hustle to make it to school on time. He stood and stretched, and there was a crash of crockery as the plates Peter was holding hit the tile floor where he’d dropped them. Peter was staring at Stiles as if he’d forgotten the plates existed at all. Cora snorted and said, "Cover it up, Stiles. You're rattling the old man."

Stiles glanced down, assuming his fly was unzipped, but he couldn't see anything, just a strip of exposed belly skin where his shirt had rucked up when he stretched, and surely that wasn’t worth covering up. He flipped her off. The Hales were such trolls.

Talia walked into the kitchen at that moment, taking in the smashed plates and the sight of Stiles with one arm still over his head and the other flipping Cora the bird, and opened her mouth. Before she could speak though, Peter growled out, “Not a _word,_ ” looking distinctly murderous, and her mouth snapped shut. Peter crouched and picked up the bigger chunks of crockery, dropping them in the trash before stalking from the kitchen.

Once he’d gone, Cora grabbed the dustpan and brush, but as she swept she snickered and said, “His _face,_ though,” and then started giggling for some reason. Talia’s lips twitched up in the beginnings of a smile, and then she was joining in. Stiles had the distinct feeling he’d missed something, but there wasn’t time to investigate further because now he was really running late, and so was Cora. Talia shooed them both off to school, and Stiles didn’t think any more about it.

* * *

At a minute to seven, there was a knock on the door of Stiles’s suite. He’d been ready since six thirty and changed his shirt four times since then, nervous for no discernible reason. He'd finally settled on the crisp white shirt that he’d worn on his date with Paul, because Peter had mentioned liking it. He’d rolled the cuffs halfway up his forearms and left the top three buttons undone so his choker was visible, and paired it with deep burgundy dress pants.

He’d asked Peter where they were going when he’d gotten home from school, but Peter had just tapped the side of his nose and said, “It’s a surprise,” which was so typically Peter that Stiles didn’t know why he’d bothered asking.

He was just looking at himself in the mirror, debating whether this qualified as nicely dressed or if the burgundy was pretentious and he had time to change into the black instead(again), when the knock came.

He opened the door and his breath came in a sharp gasp because Peter looked— well, phenomenal was the only word for it. He was also in dress pants and a white shirt with the sleeves cuffed, but he had an unbuttoned vest thrown over it, which immediately upped his hotness level by about a thousand percent. “Wow.” The word left Stiles’s mouth unbidden.

Peter preened visibly in response. “Thank you, sweetheart. You look rather lovely yourself. Shall we go?”

Stiles nodded, and followed Peter down the stairs, and if he happened to check out his ass on the way, well. Those pants were a _very_ flattering cut.

Talia smiled warmly at Stiles as they passed her where she was curled up in her living room with a book. “You both look very nice. Going somewhere?”

“Um, yeah.” Stiles said, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck and feeling unaccountably shy. “A date. Peter’s idea.”

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” Talia said, raising an eyebrow in Peter’s direction. “Have a good time.”

Peter raised an eyebrow back and Talia gave an approving nod, her lips quirking. As often happened with werewolves, Stiles felt like he’d just missed an entire conversation. Talia gave a wave and went back to reading her book, and Peter whisked him out the door.

Peter pulled out smoothly and Stiles took a moment to appreciate the thrill of riding in the Cobra. Peter really did have excellent taste. Once they were moving, Stiles said, “So, do I get to know where you’re taking me yet?”

“Of course. I’m taking you to Gino’s.”

Stiles felt a jolt of surprise. “Really?”

“Why are you surprised?”

“Because that’s where we—I mean, where _I_ went with Paul.”

“I wanted to take you somewhere nice, and Gino’s is the best in town,” Peter replied, “but if it's uncomfortable for you, we can go somewhere else.” He wrinkled his nose. “One of Derek’s hole-in-the-wall restaurants maybe?”

“No,” Stiles hastened to reassure him. “Gino’s is fine. Better than fine.” It was, too—he was more than a little flattered that Peter had made the effort, given that Stiles was technically already his.

Maybe Peter was less of an asshole that Stiles had thought. Which was probably a good thing, given he was marrying him.

When they arrived at the restaurant the hostess led them to their table and left them with their menus, and for a split second Stiles started to panic, because this wasn’t just breakfast or tacos on the run—this was a _date_ -date, and it was with Peter, and god, Stiles was bound to say something stupid and screw this up like he always did. And, he was shocked to discover, he _wanted_ this to go well.

“Sweetheart?” Peter’s voice was soft, and Stiles realized he was clutching his fork tightly enough that his knuckles were white. “Your heart’s racing. What is it?” Peter leaned forward on his elbows and reached out to trace a thumb over Stiles’s clenched fist.

The touch was enough to drag himself out of his own head, and he shook it a little to clear it. “Sorry,” he rasped out. “Just, first date nerves, I guess?” He mustered up a weak smile.

Peter’s thumb continued to stroke across his knuckles. “If it makes you feel any better, you’re not the only one.”

Stiles felt something loosen in his chest at that. “Really?”

Peter gave a rueful smile. “I changed my shirt three times, even though you’ve seen me in my pyjamas. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“Kinda, yeah,” Stiles agreed. He unclenched his fist and laid the fork down on the tablecloth.

“Better,” Peter said, raising one eyebrow. “I was worried for a moment that you were planning to impale me.”

Stiles snorted. “No bloodshed on dates, I promise.”

“Not without prior consent and a safeword,” Peter smirked, and it was such a _Peter_ thing to say that Stiles burst out laughing. Peter joined in, and just like that the tension was broken.

After that, Stiles was able to relax. His nerves tried to make a reappearance, but he just ignored them, and instead focused on the conversation and the food and the company, all of which were excellent. Stiles’s carbonara was delicious, and so was Peter’s ravioli—he insisted on feeding Stiles a bite, saying, “You have to try this.” Stiles returned the favor with his dish, and he got to watch Peter’s tongue lapping at the stray cream sauce on his top lip, bringing memories of that morning's dream crashing back.

Stiles ducked his head to hide the rising blush and concentrated on loading his fork. Just because Peter was attractive and a really good kisser and funnier than Stiles remembered, that didn’t give Stiles the right to objectify him.

“So,” he said in an effort to keep his mind out of the gutter, “how did the McCluskeys respond to Talia’s email?”

Stiles had personally witnessed the way Talia had hit the send key with a savage kind of glee when she informed the Nebraska pack that a wedding date had been set and they could consider their claim void. With her next few keystrokes she’d removed Stiles from the ‘available’ section of the Selections website, and he’d be lying if he said hadn’t breathed a huge sigh of relief.

Peter’s eyes crinkled as he grinned. “Nothing but a read receipt. I think they know you’re a lost cause.”

“Hey! Is that any way to talk about your future husband?” Stiles teased, feeling the tension leave him at knowing he was safe with Peter.

“Apologies, future husband,” Peter said, his smile becoming wider. “I’ll be sure to only sing your praises from now on.”

Stiles opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut off by a loud squeal from a nearby table. He spun in his seat to see a young man on one knee in front of his date, the source of the squeal. She had her hands clasped in front of her mouth and was staring at the open ring box extended to her. _“Yes!”_ she shrieked, _“yes!”_

The young man’s face broke into a beaming smile, and he stood and swept her out of her chair, swinging her around and kissing her for all he was worth while everyone around them applauded and cheered.

Stiles applauded right along with the rest of them, but it was as if a rock had lodged itself in his gullet, because he was safe from Nebraska, but at what cost?

Once he was married to Peter, he’d never get to have _that._

Suddenly he needed to get away. “I— excuse me.” He pushed his seat back and bolted for the restrooms, and once there, he sat down heavily in one of the armchairs in the dressing room and buried his face in his hands as he contemplated something he honestly hadn’t considered.

Once he was married to Peter, sex with anyone else was off the table—Stiles wasn’t a cheat. And to his knowledge, Peter wasn’t interested in him that way, which meant one thing.

Stiles was going to die a virgin.

It was stupid that he hadn’t realized before now, but he’d been so desperate to stay with the Hale pack that he really hadn’t had a chance to think it through, what with the McCluskeys turning up early and getting all up in his face. He took a deep, shaky breath, and contemplated going the rest of his life wondering what he was missing and never getting the chance to find out, because if he knew one thing about himself, it was that he wasn’t wired like that. Some people could have affairs. Stiles wasn’t one of them.

He wondered if Peter would show the same restraint.

He pressed the heel of his hands against his eyes, fighting the stinging there, just as the door swung open and slammed shut and a hand landed on his shoulder. “Stiles? What’s wrong?”

Stiles shook his head, not trusting himself to speak, and Peter sat next to him on the sofa, placed a hand on the back of his neck and made shushing noises for a minute, before saying, “Sweetheart, you smell miserable. Tell me what I did wrong?”

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat. “Nothing. Not everything’s about you, okay?” Except that was a lie, wasn’t it? This was about both of them.

Peter sighed, and then Stiles was being tugged and pulled at so he was curled against Peter’s side with his head on Peter’s chest and a hand draped over his back holding him there. The steady thump-thump of Peter's heartbeat was soothing, as was the hand stroking Stiles’s hair, and if anything it made him feel worse, because was this a glimpse of his future in terms of physical affection? Comfort from wolf hugs? He squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

“It was the proposal, wasn’t it?” Peter asked quietly. Stiles nodded against his chest. “Tell me, sweetheart. I’m missing something, and I hate it when I don’t know everything, you know that.”

That drew a wet laugh out of Stiles, and he sat up and ran a hand over his face, doing his best to find the words to explain, because he needed to get this out in the open and find out what Peter’s plans were for the future so at least he wouldn’t be blindsided by a string of pretty young things at the breakfast table. Although even as he thought it, Stiles knew that wasn’t Peter's style.

He took a deep breath, chose his words carefully, opened his mouth, and blurted, “I’ll never know what it’s like to be fucked.”

Peter’s mouth dropped open.

That— that was _not_ the sentence Stiles had constructed in his head.

He pulled away, face heating, heart racing, and waited for Peter to laugh at him.

Except, that’s not what happened at all.

What happened was that Peter came and crouched in front of him and cupped Stiles’s face in his hands, eyes searching. The worried crease appeared on his forehead. “Stiles, you’re not making sense. Why will you never know? Are you not attracted to me?”

Stiles fought the urge to laugh hysterically. “ _Not attracted to you?_ Believe me, that’s not the issue. But it hit me watching that couple that they’ll probably go home and screw each other’s brains out, whereas us? We’ll go home to our separate rooms and that’ll be it. It won’t ever be more. And I'm jealous, okay?”

Peter took a sharp breath at that, but the crease disappeared, and it looked like he was fighting back a smile. “Sweetheart, it can be more if you want that.”

Now it was Stiles’s turn for all the air to leave him in a whoosh. Was Peter offering— “But, you don’t want me like that. Do you?” he asked in a small voice, knowing the answer was no.

Peter let out a disbelieving huff, and then he sat back on the couch and dragged Stiles closer by the collar of his shirt, leaned in, and kissed him thoroughly in reply. It was soft and tender at first, but then his fingers tangled in Stiles’s hair, moving and tugging his head so their mouths lined up, and somehow, he couldn’t have told you exactly how, Stiles ended up on his back on the couch with Peter sprawled over him, mouths locked together and bodies pressed close as the kiss intensified, firm muscles and body heat covering Stiles, forming a blissful cocoon of warmth and skin, a tiny pocket of lust. Stiles let out a moan and Peter rolled his hips, just enough for Stiles to feel the hard ridge of flesh pressing against his zipper. Then he pulled back and dropped his head into the crook of Stiles’s neck, where he panted out, “Don’t tell me what I don’t want, sweetheart.”

Stiles’s own cock throbbed, and he gasped, “Oh, fuck.” He tugged on Peter’s hair, desperate to see Peter's face, ask him if he meant it, but when Peter raised his eyes the pupils were blown wide, and really, that told Stiles everything he needed to know about whether Peter was really okay with this.

Peter dove in for another kiss, and Stiles closed his eyes and savored it. God, Peter’s mouth was an utter delight. He slid a hand down Peter’s back and grabbed his ass, and Peter hummed into his mouth and ground against him, his tongue making inroads, licking and teasing, all of it just making Stiles want more. This was better than his dreams, because this was real, this was here and now, this was—

“Jesus, get a room!”

This was the bathroom at Gino’s.

Peter pulled away and Stiles sat up hastily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sorry,” Stiles called out half-heartedly at the man’s retreating back.

Peter chuckled lowly and then settled on the couch next to Stiles and took his hand. “Now, shall we talk about this like adults?” He sounded completely calm, and Stiles didn’t know better, he’d never have guessed that Peter had just been making out like a teenager —apart from the obvious bulge in his pants, of course. _Eyes up here_ , he chided himself, and dragged his gaze away to find Peter watching him, amused.

“Um, yeah. Talk,” Stiles echoed. “We should do that.”

“Obviously, we share a mutual attraction,” Peter began, and Stiles couldn’t help but grin, because that was possibly the understatement of the century.

Still, he tried to be an adult and nodded his agreement. “Definitely mutual.”

“So why don’t we explore the physical side of our relationship, have a little fun, and see what happens?”

Stiles nodded again, more vigorously. “That sounds kind of great, honestly. I sort of freaked out because I saw that couple, and all I could think was that we’d be married and I’d never get to have any of that stuff, and you’d be off having affairs, and— “

“I’d _what?_ ” Peter looked utterly offended at the very idea. He pulled his hand away and his lips pursed in disapproval. “Our marriage is unconventional, but that doesn’t mean I intend to break my vows.”

Stiles hung his head, and wondered how, once again, he’d managed to fuck this up. “I just assumed you'd keep doing whatever it is you do,” he admitted, “the same as I assumed you wouldn’t be interested in me. Jesus, I really do need to start giving you the benefit of the doubt, don’t I?”

“You really do,” Peter said with an arched brow, but then his expression softened and he rested one hand on Stiles’s thigh.

Stiles set his own hand on top of Peter’s. “So, ignoring what I just said because I'm obviously an idiot, can we go back to the part about having fun?”

Peter’s lips curled up at the corners and he leaned in close and whispered, “We can have _so much fun,_ sweetheart.”

The hand on Stiles’s thigh crept an inch higher, and it took all of Stiles’s willpower to press his own hand tightly on top of it, holding it in place. “I like the sound of that, but what are we talking about here?”

Peter was attracted to him, and Peter had a hand on his thigh, and Stiles was still struggling to take it all in, honestly, but he knew it was important he was clear about one thing. He wasn’t interested in going to bed with Peter tonight.

Well, he was interested, but he wasn’t _ready_ , and there was a world of difference.

“We can do whatever you’d like, sweetheart,” Peter said, and it was tempting, _Peter_ was tempting, but.

“What if I just wanna make out?” Stiles asked, almost a challenge.

“Then we just make out,” Peter said simply, “and if you want to hold hands, we hold hands. Of course if you want more, I’d be happy to oblige, but there's no pressure to perform if that’s what you’re asking, Stiles.”

A knot unclenched in Stiles's gut. “I mean, I’m pretty sure I wanna do more than make out, but I’m not ready to do it all, not yet.”

Peter nodded. “Understandable, and perfectly fine. After all, don’t they always say it's the journey that’s important, rather than the destination?”

“They do,” Stiles agreed.

“So we take it slow, and enjoy exploring all the peaks and troughs along the way,” Peter purred, “and there are one or two detours I plan to make that I'm sure you’ll _love_.” He somehow managed to make ‘enjoying the journey’ sound absolutely filthy in a way that no self-help guru ever had, but Stiles wasn’t really surprised by that. After all, it _was_ Peter.

Stiles couldn't help but grin. This wasn’t how he’d expected their first date to go. He certainly hadn't expected to spend part of the evening in the bathroom freaking out and the next part kissing and talking about sex, but he wasn’t unhappy with how the evening had turned out.

Stiles found himself reassured that now they’d cleared the air, the weight of their future was eased slightly by the knowledge that on one thing at least, they were in agreement. Peter wanted him, and he wanted Peter back.

He knew of marriages that had been built on less.

As he looked across at Peter in his cuffed sleeves and vest and open necked shirt, with his artfully groomed stubble and chiseled jaw, his blue eyes, and his plush kissable mouth, a wave of desire tugged at Stiles as memories of that morning’s dream played out, and newly confident, he decided he was going to ask before he lost his nerve. He moved Peter’s hand off his leg and stood. “So, wanna skip dessert, go home and make out with me?”

Peter’s smile turned sharp. “Sweetheart, I would _love_ it.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They make out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this chapter unrepentant smut? Yes.  
> Am I justifying it by calling it character development? Also yes.  
> Enjoy!

They didn’t make out right away when they got home, but only because Derek and Cora and Isaac were watching a movie and asked if they wanted to watch too, smirking like they expected them to say no. Of course Peter took one look at their knowing expressions and plopped himself down on the couch between Cora and Isaac, obnoxiously cheerful, and then shoved Cora over to make room for Stiles, tugging him by the hand into the space next to him and saying, “Love to. What are we watching?”

They only spent half an hour catching the end of the film but it felt like an eternity, with Stiles far too aware of the length of Peter's thigh pressed against his and the warmth of Peter's arm draped around his shoulders, a teasing presence that promised more.

Stiles did his best not to squirm, but he couldn’t have told you what he watched, and as soon as the credits started to roll he was on his feet like a jack-in-the-box. “Okay, I'm off to bed,” he said as he stretched and yawned (and yes, he _did_ make sure his shirt was untucked and rode up so Peter got an eyeful of belly skin, because he got the whole thing with the plates now and he was still riding the high of Peter actually wanting him.)

Peter inhaled sharply at the sight and then stood and placed a possessive hand on the small of Stiles’s back. “Bed time for me as well, I think.”

Cora and Isaac pressed close to each other into the space he’d left like two magnets snapping rapidly together, probably because they didn’t trust him not to change his mind and sit down again, but Stiles could have told them not to worry. He didn’t have werewolf senses, but he was pretty sure Peter wasn’t thinking about trolling his pack any more.

They headed up the stairs together and when they reached the top Peter paused. “Do you still want this, sweetheart?”

Stiles leaned in and kissed Peter’s cheek, then whispered in his ear, “You’re lucky I don't make you wait after pulling that bullshit, but yes, I still want this.”

And he did. He was attracted to his fiance, had been for quite a while if he was honest with himself, and now that he had a chance to do something about it, he wasn't going to second guess himself.

“Excellent.” Peter pulled him in for a proper kiss, short but intense, and Stiles enjoyed it thoroughly. When their lips parted, Peter’s eyes were dark with want. “Your rooms or mine?”

Stile thought about it for a second before deciding, “Yours.” Part of it was that he was curious to see Peter's rooms, but another, larger part was the idea that he’d be making Peter’s living space smell like him. If Peter was going to go out of his way to make this marriage work for them, then the least Stiles could do was meet him halfway and play to his instincts, knowing Peter’s wolf would appreciate it.

Peter’s mouth curved up in that wicked smile of his, and he tugged a willing Stiles along the hallway by the untucked tails of his shirt.

Once they got to his rooms and through the door, he spun them around and pressed Stiles against the wall, hands slipping under the hem of his shirt and resting just above his hips. Stiles arched into the touch and draped his arms around Peter’s neck and feeling bold, he leaned in for a kiss. He wasn’t sure how far he wanted to go, but Peter had said there was no pressure, and Stiles trusted him enough to know he meant it, which meant he could just enjoy this without panicking that Peter would go too far.

Peter’s mouth was warm and responsive under his, and Stiles opened his own mouth further, allowing Peter’s tongue to slip inside and explore. Peter’s hands skated lightly up Stiles’s ribs in a way that felt both dangerous and intoxicating, and Stiles couldn’t quite hold back a breathy moan. Peter pulled away long enough to ask, “Too sensitive, sweetheart?”

“Nuh huh. I like it.” Stiles moved one hand to Peter’s hair to guide him back to the very important business of kissing, and he felt the curve of Peter’s smile against his mouth. They stayed like that, Peter holding him in place with the sheer weight of his body, and Stiles closed his eyes and let his hands slide down Peter’s back and cup the swell of his ass. It felt just as firm and muscular as Stiles had imagined it would when he pressed his fingers into the flesh, and Peter made a pleased noise that Stiles swallowed down, and then Stiles did it again.

Peter broke their kiss, but it was only so he could nuzzle at Stiles’s throat, laying little kisses on the sensitive skin and oh, Stiles liked that, he liked it _a lot_ , so he tipped his head back to expose more of his throat in a move reminiscent of his dream, and Peter hummed his approval before letting his teeth graze not-quite-gently over a spot right on the curve of Stiles’s neck. Stiles went from sporting a semi to rock hard in seconds at the sweet sting, and Peter laughed softly against his skin. “You are a sensitive little thing, aren’t you?” he murmured, and then nipped at the flesh harder.

Stiles whined, tilted his head back further and tightening his grip on Peter’s ass, pulling him closer. There was a man hotter than sin pressed against him right now, making him dizzy with want, and conversation was the last thing on his mind. He could feel Peter’s erection through his dress pants, and had no doubt Peter could feel his. He rolled his hips, eager for more contact, and earned a soft growl against the skin of his throat, which did things to Stiles in a way he hadn’t expected. It turned out that Peter’s animal noises were a major turn on—something about _knowing_ that he was making out with a werewolf affected him in a visceral, gut deep way that had his cock throbbing with want. He squirmed under Peter’s touch and his mouth, growing more desperate by the second.

Peter lifted his head and gazed at Stiles’s face, searching, before asking, “How far do you want to take this? Do you want to come?”

Stiles slid his hands down the back of Peter’s dress pants to keep him in place and rocked against him, rubbing their cocks together through the fabric. “You’re really asking me that?”

Peter let out a soft laugh. “Just want to be sure, sweetheart. Why don’t we take this to the bed and get comfy, and then I can get my hands on _this?_ ” He slipped a hand between them and squeezed gently at the bulge in Stiles’s pants, and then spun them around and started walking Stiles backwards towards the bedroom.

“Hands?” Stiles squeaked, then cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah, hands would be good.”

Peter steered them until they were at his bed, which was frankly enormous, and only then did his hands leave Stiles’s skin. “Shall I touch you, sweetheart?”

Stiles nodded like one of those solar-powered dashboard sunflowers, and Peter leaned in and kissed him hungrily. It was just as shockingly good as every other time he’d done it, and Stiles wondered if he’d ever stop being surprised by how talented Peter’s mouth was. He hoped not.

While they kissed Peter slipped a hand between them, opening the button on Stiles’s pants and sliding his zipper down and shoving his trousers down to his knees. and then a hand that _wasn’t his own_ was sliding over the front of Stiles’s boxers, stroking and touching him through the silky fabric. It was almost enough to make him come right there, but then Peter was turning him so Peter was behind him back to chest, tugging him backwards until they both hit the edge of the bed. Peter sat, legs spread wide to make room, and Stiles slotted into the vee of his thighs like he was made to fit there. “There we go,” Peter crooned, and slid a thumb into the waistband of Stiles’s boxers. His hand stilled for a second. “You’re sure?”

Warm breath tickled against the shell of Stiles’s ear and Stiles tipped his head back and to the side as his hips thrust up, looking for more contact. Honestly, Stiles had always thought he’d be good at dirty talk, but now he wondered how anyone could ever string two words together when there was a hand on their dick. The best he could manage was a strangled noise and another rapid-fire nod.

Peter hummed and mouthed at the skin on the side of his throat, and then licked his palm before slipping his hand inside Stiles’s underwear and wrapping it around his cock. His other arm locked in place around Stiles’s waist as Peter started stroking in a steady rhythm, and Stiles could feel the heat and hardness of Peter’s cock pressing up against his lower back.

Peter’s hand was slightly too dry, and the angle was awkward, and none of it mattered, because having someone else touch him was so different and new and so good that Stiles couldn’t hold back, didn’t even try. His cock throbbed under Peter's touch and when Peter added a twist to his movements and skimmed a thumb over the sensitive head, his climax hit him without warning, his hips stuttering up and his back arching as he panted and whined his way through it, his whole body shaking.

Stiles went limp in Peter’s arms as Peter held him close and let out a groan, a puff of hot air hitting the now-sensitive skin on the back of Stiles’s neck and making Stiles shiver. Peter’s hips continued to rock forward, his movements more purposeful as his breathing quickened, and Stiles had a moment to wonder if Peter was actually going to come in his pants before Peter grunted and lifted Stiles bodily so he was perched on one knee, then opened his pants and pulled out his cock, thick and hard and leaking, and started to stroke it.

Stiles had lost any inhibitions he had exactly one orgasm ago and he really wanted to get his hands on that cock, so he placed one hand on top of Peter’s, stilling it. “Can I get you off?” he asked, fairly certain Peter wouldn’t say no.

Still, he wasn’t prepared for Peters’s hiss of indrawn breath, or the strangled, “Please,” that he let out. Peter stroked himself one more time, and it was then that Stiles saw he was spreading Stiles’s own come as lube, and it shouldn’t have been nearly as hot as it was.

“Let me,” he said and took Peter in hand, stroking slowly to start with as he explored the heft of his cock and rolled back the delicate foreskin, something he’d never been able to do with his own dick, before tightening his grip. Peter made a sound like he’d been punched and his breathing became even more ragged, and it almost made Stiles dizzy with a rush of power. It was _him_ making Peter make those desperate sounds, and he was the reason Peter had started to thrust urgently into his hand. He leaned in and kissed Peter hard, and while he slid his tongue into Peter’s mouth he sped up his movements. A hand came up and tangled in Stiles’s hair, and Stiles felt Peter’s cock swell and tense under his hand before Peter moaned into his mouth and came hard enough that the first streaks of come hit Stiles’s thigh and belly before the rest of it oozed over his knuckles.

Peter pulled back from their kiss and panted a breathless, groaned-out, _ _“_ Stiles _,”__ and the way he said it, it was almost like a prayer. He lifted Stiles’s hand away from where it was still resting around his softening cock and stared at it like he’d never seen it before, and Stiles was suddenly acutely aware of the come dripping from his fingers.

“We, uh, should clean that up,” Stiles said.

Peter blinked and stared at him for a moment as if he was speaking a foreign language, and then he nodded slowly, eyes half lidded and a lazy smile on his face, and leaned forward and took Stiles’s fingers into his mouth, suckling on them delicately one by one while Stiles watched, mesmerised by the sight of Peter _always-in-control_ Hale, come-drunk and sucking his fingers clean of their combined mess. It should have been gross, but it was hot as fuck.

Peter finished up by licking Stiles’s palm and pressing kisses to his wrist, before flopping backwards onto the bed and dragging Stiles with him so that they were both lying sprawled sideways with Peter’s arm draped over him, and Stiles was too fucked out and boneless to object, even though he knew he should probably go back to his own rooms. Just because Peter was interested in sex didn’t mean he was offering a sleepover. Still, at least Stiles was reassured that Peter really was attracted to him. And even if it was only on a physical level, he’d take it.

After a few minutes though, the come on his belly had become uncomfortably cool, and Stiles squirmed and prodded at Peter. “I’m a mess.”

Peter’s eyes opened, impossibly blue, and he smirked. “I’d apologize, but I’m not the least bit sorry.”

Stiles grinned. “Neither am I.”

Peter sat up then, and helped Stiles get upright, since his pants were still tangled halfway down his thighs. He cupped Stiles’s face in one warm hand and said, “So I take it you enjoyed that as much as I did?”

Stiles nodded, and because he was still relaxed and uninhibited, prodded at Peter’s dress shirt. “Seems unfair that you kept all your clothes on, though.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “You’re still half-dressed yourself, sweetheart, and you’re not the only one who’s curious.”

Stiles stared down at himself dumbly. His pants and boxers were pushed down and his shirt was rucked up, but _technically_ , Peter was right. “Huh.”

Peter’s eyes danced with mischief. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you join me in the shower and we can both see what we’re getting?”

A tiny part of Stiles was hesitant, knowing his body wasn’t even close to stacking up next to Peter’s well-muscled glory, but it was only a tiny part, and he shoved it aside and reminded himself that Peter obviously thought he was hot if the noises he’d made and the way he’d come in under a minute flat was anything to go by.

He took a deep breath and tugged his dress shirt off over his head and Peter hummed approvingly, running his hands across Stiles’s shoulders and down his sides lightly and making Stiles shiver. “Gorgeous,” he murmured, hands resting on Stiles’s hips. Stiles ducked his head, suddenly shy while being stupidly pleased at the compliment. Peter put a finger under his chin and raised his head so he was forced to look into Peter's eyes. “I mean it,” he said quietly. “You’re quite lovely, and I can’t wait to take you apart.”

Stiles felt the heat flooding his face.”Uh, th-thanks?” he stammered out, and Peter’s smirk told him that Peter _knew_ the effect his words would have. Stiles couldn’t really be annoyed though, not when he’d dreamed of exactly the same thing—Peter taking him apart, teaching him what felt good.

He reached out and ran his fingers over the buttons on Peter’s shirt. The top three were already undone, because Peter, so he took a moment to smooth his hand down the side of Peter’s throat, careful to keep his movements slow—werewolves were protective of their throats—and felt heat radiating off the skin and the steady thud of Peter’s pulse under his palm as Peter leaned into the touch. “Your fucking neck,” he murmured, earning a pleased chuckle from Peter.

He set about getting the rest of those buttons undone, and it didn’t take long before Stiles was able to peel Peter’s vest and shirt off him and revel in the gloriousness of Peter’s naked torso. He’d seen it before, when they changed shirts at the restaurant and Peter had spent the evening wrapped in nothing but that fucking cardigan, but now Peter was showing him deliberately, and that made all the difference.

He reached out slowly, fingers tracing softly over Peter’s abs, exploring. Peter sucked in a breath, and Stiles was reassured that he wasn’t the only one affected by this. He let his fingers trail lower, down Peter’s happy trail, before sliding them inside the open waistband of his pants and down over his hips, shoving at fabric.

Peter leaned back on his elbows, planted his feet more firmly on the floor, and lifted his hips, which meant Stiles was treated to the sight of Peter with an arched back, stomach muscles taut and straining, laid out like an absolute feast. Stiles swallowed thickly. “You’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Peter smirked, and flexed his stomach muscles so they rolled enticingly. “You like it?”

“Jesus, I mean obviously I like it. Anyone with a _pulse_ would like it.” Peter threw back his head and laughed, which just made him even more attractive. Stiles blew out a long breath and tugged Peter’s pants over his hips and down to his ankles and then, lifting one foot at a time, he pulled them off. Sitting back up, he had to swallow a whine when he finally got to see all of his future husband, gloriously and beautifully naked. It was everything he’d imagined and more, and he wanted to touch him everywhere. He had a sudden need to feel the texture of the hair on Peter’s thick thighs, lick at the head of his cock, dig his teeth into his collarbones, kiss and suck at those nipples and see if he couldn’t make Peter beg.

“Whatever you’re thinking sweetheart, please do share, because you smell absolutely divine right now,” Peter said, sitting up and running a hand down the side of Stiles’s face with a smile that suggested he already knew what Stiles was thinking.

Which, Stiles remembered, he probably did, so he didn’t bother trying to hide it. “I’m wondering how I got so lucky, and thinking of all the things I want to do to you,” he said. Peter laughed again, rich and pleased, and Stiles shrugged. “We both know you’re hot, and we're getting married. I may as well enjoy it.” As much as he could have sat staring at Peter all day, the come on his own skin was starting to dry and flake, so he stood and shuffled out of his pants so he was naked as well. “So, shower?”

“One moment, sweetheart.” Peter stood and grasped Stiles round one wrist, pulling him close, and kissing him. Their naked bodies pressed together, and there was _so much skin_ , right there under Stiles hands, rubbing against him from head to toe, warm and yielding and utterly intoxicating. By the time Peter pulled back Stiles’s cock was half-hard again and Peter's pupils were dark.

“What was that for?” Stiles asked, still breathless, “not that I’m objecting.”

Peter buried his face in the crook of Stiles's neck and inhaled deeply before answering, “Because you smelled too good to resist.”

“Wow. Your sense of smell really must be something,” Stiles observed. He knew it intellectually, but seeing it in action was another thing, and he couldn’t help but find it flattering.

“There’s no way to describe it,” Peter said before kissing him again, gently this time, and then turning Stiles towards the bathroom and slapping his ass lightly. “Come on. Shower.”

* * *

Showering together was an experience, for several reasons. Firstly, Peter didn’t have a standard shower, no. His was equipped with two shower heads complete with massage settings, and it was more than big enough for two people, which meant there was plenty of room for them to get carried away kissing and touching each other.

It was also memorable because exploring every inch of Peter’s skin meant that Stiles was able to confirm with his own two eyes (and his mouth, because it was in such a kissable spot), the existence of Peter Hale’s ass tattoo. Stiles cackled with glee when he found it. “Cora was right! You have an ass tatt!”

“Upper thigh,” Peter grumbled. It was a small, perfectly inked triskelion, lodged on what could technically be called the very top of his thigh, but Stiles swore up and down it was the crease of his ass, just to watch the way Peter's eye twitched when he said it. They argued back and forth a few times before Peter rolled his eyes and said, “We could keep arguing about this, or I could blow you. Your choice.”

Stiles, whose cock was achingly hard from continued exposure to Peter’s nakedness as well as all the making out they’d been indulging in, swallowed thickly at the promise of his first blowjob. “It’s a very nice upper thigh tattoo.”

“That’s what I thought,” Peter said smugly. He pressed Stiles back against the tiles, knelt down, and went to work, making Stiles gasp at the unexpected heat of Peter’s mouth on him. Peter didn’t waste time teasing, but got down to licking and sucking expertly, and it was overwhelming in all the best ways. Stiles gripped Peter's hair and tugged hard as Peter swallowed him all the way down, and it didn’t take long before he was hit with such a mind-blowing orgasm that he had to sit on the floor of the shower stall afterwards, because his legs were too weak to hold him.

Peter mocked him gently but Stiles didn’t care, because Peter also scooped him up off the tiles, dried him off, and guided him back to the bedroom, and Stiles got to touch Peter’s body some more. Peter climbed into bed, still naked, and pulled the covers back on the other half while Stiles stared in dumb confusion. “Shouldn’t I go back to my room?”

Peter’s brow furrowed. “You can, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

“You...want me to stay?” Now that the sex part was over with, Stiles felt strangely awkward.

Peter huffed and patted the empty spot next to him. “Yes, Stiles. I’d like you to stay. I enjoy close contact after sex.”

Stiles was still sleepy-slow from his orgasms, and the bed did look nice, and Peter was _asking_ , so he nodded. “Yeah, I’d like that.” He slid between the sheets, and they were exactly as soft and luxurious as they looked. He found himself manhandled so he was the little spoon, and then Peter shuffled over and pressed his warn body up the length of Stiles's back. He fitted there like the space had been made for him, and Peter made a satisfied noise and wrapped his arm over Stiles’s middle.

It was comfortable, _nice_ , and so Stiles just let himself enjoy being held, and he told himself he wouldn’t sleep, just rest his eyes for a while and head back to his room in an hour or so, so that he didn’t overstay his welcome.

He was asleep ten seconds later.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that this chapter is shorter than usual, but that's just the way the story wanted to be told. I don't make the rules.

Stiles woke to unfamiliar sheets, soft, even breaths on the back of his neck, and an arm draped over his belly. For a split second he thought he was dreaming again, but then he remembered. He was in Peter’s bed. With Peter. Because it turned out Peter wanted him after all. His lips turned up in a smile at that.

There were traces of light filtering in around the edges of the curtains, so he reached out and grabbed his phone from where he’d tossed it on the bedside table and checked the time.

5.45 AM.

Peter’s arm tightened and pulled him back in close, and Stiles let himself be molded against the warm body behind him. He hadn’t intended to stay the night, but he figured that if Peter minded, he just would have kicked Stiles out—if there was one thing Stiles knew, it was that Peter was very good at making his opinions known.

He lay there wrapped in toasty warm werewolf for a few minutes, but now that he was awake he had to pee, so he squirmed his way out of Peter’s embrace and used the bathroom. When he came back out he stood there, hesitant. Did he get back into bed? Would Peter still want him there? Or should he try and get back to his room without being spotted by any of the other Hales?

Peter let out an annoyed huff and threw the blankets back. “Get in,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep, and that, Stiles guessed, answered that question. He got back into bed and Peter immediately rolled and half-sprawled on top of him, pinning him to the bed. Peter Hale, part octopus—who knew?

Still, it was kind of comfy and a lot flattering, so Stiles let himself drift, partly sleeping, partly enjoying the heat and weight of Peter’s body, and partly replaying the events of last night in his mind. They’d gone on a date, and talked about sex, and then Stiles had gotten laid, kind of. Did this mean he wasn’t a virgin any more? Did hand jobs count? What about blowjobs?

Stiles could feel where Peter’s soft cock was nestled in the hollow of his hip, and it reminded him that he’d come twice and Peter had only come once. Should he have blown Peter in return? Shit, what if Peter had been expecting him to, and by failing to offer he’d breached some sort of werewolf-sex-etiquette rule?

“Whatever you’re thinking about, stop it,” Peter grumbled, face mashed against Stiles’s collarbone, “it’s doing unpleasant things to your heart rate.”

“Sorry. I was just—did I disappoint you last night?” Stiles’s gut squirmed even as he asked.

Peter lifted his head, squinting at Stiles. “Yes. It was terrible. That’s why I asked you to stay, so you could marinate in the dark cloud of my disappointment.” His head dropped again, but Stiles could still _feel_ the eyeroll.

“Smartass,” he muttered, but the squirmy feeling in his belly eased and gave way to warmth as he remembered that Peter didn’t lie—not to him.

Peter groaned and rolled off to one side, propping himself up on one elbow. “Just so I can better understand what goes on in that brain of yours, why would you think I was disappointed?”

Stiles was glad it was still partially dark, so Peter couldn’t see how hard he blushed. “I came twice, and you only got to come once.”

Peter’s eyebrow arched, clearly visible even in the dim light. “And what, you thought there was a tally sheet?”

“No, but I—” Stiles stopped mid-denial, because that was _exactly_ what he’d thought, wasn’t it? “Maybe,” he amended, “but in fairness, I’m new at all this.”

Peter smiled, then let out a low, hungry noise that Stiles felt in his bones, before leaning in and husking in his ear, “Just so you know, sweetheart? Even if we _were_ keeping score, I can promise you that by the time we’ve been married a month, you will have lost count.” Then Peter buried his nose in the dip of Stiles’s throat, just where the stone of his claiming choker nestled, and inhaled deeply, letting out a low groan. “Besides, you have no idea what the scent of your satisfaction does to my wolf. There are still traces of it lingering on you from last night, baby.”

Stiles felt a frisson of _something_ run through him at the use of the pet name, and he shivered. Peter stilled, face still buried in his throat, before his head snapped up, mouth curved up in a sharp smile. “Oh, you like it when I call you _baby?_ ”

Stiles found himself pinned to the bed as Peter rolled them over and settled on top of him, propped up on his elbows as he examined Stiles’s face carefully, one eyebrow raised, and Stiles realised he was waiting for an answer. “Yeah,” he admitted, more to himself than Peter. “I do.”

“Good to know,” Peter purred, leaning in and kissing him. Stiles closed his eyes and went with it, and his dick started to take a serious interest, what with the hot mouth on his and the warm skin and firm muscle pressed against the length of his body. He rocked his hips looking for more friction, and Peter pulled away long enough to ask, “Shall I make you feel good, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, breathless, and then Peter was kissing his way down his body, stubble rubbing against the soft skin of his belly and making him squirm, and then a hand wrapped around his dick, pumping it slowly.

“I wish you knew how good you smelled right now, my sweet boy,” Peter said, and even though Stiles _knew_ Peter was using the pet names deliberately and would probably tease him later, it didn’t stop the heat flooding his body, or the shudder that ran down his spine.

He whined when Peter took his hand away, but then he replaced it with the soft, wet heat of his mouth, and Stiles couldn’t help but rock up into the sensation, one hand tangling in Peter’s messy locks and the other clutching desperately at the bedlinen. Peter hummed, then started to suck him off in earnest, and between the filthy noises he made and the way his tongue dipped and teased around the head of Stiles’s dick as one hand gently caressed his balls, it took barely any time before Stiles was thrusting into his mouth, cock throbbing, desperate for more. It was so good that his toes honest-to-god curled, and then his balls drew up tight and he was coming down Peter's throat with a gasp and a groan.

Peter lapped and suckled at his softening cock as it throbbed deliciously through his orgasm, only stopping when the sensation became too much and Stiles batted at him weakly with one hand. Peter chuckled and moved up the bed and pressed his face against the crook of Stiles’s throat. “Delicious,” Peter whispered. Stiles wasn’t sure what, exactly Peter was referring to, and he wasn’t quite game to ask, but it turned out he didn’t need to. “The scent of your arousal, sweetheart, it’s—” Peter inhaled deeply and gave a porn-worthy moan. “It’s almost as satisfying as the sex itself.”

Looking at the rapt expression on Peter's face, the way his eyes were glittering darkly when he finally lifted his head, Stiles believed him utterly. _He’d_ made Peter look that way, without even touching him.

Stiles could feel Peter’s cock pressing against his thigh, hard and persistent, and he had a sudden desire to see Peter fall apart again, the way he had last night. He slid a hand down and traced his fingers delicately along the length. Peter drew in a sharp breath before saying, “Stiles, you don't have to—”

“No,” Stiles interrupted, “I don’t. But why should you get to have all the fun?” Turning to face Peter, he pressed a hand to Peter’s chest and pushed until he was laying back on the bed, and then ran his thumb over the damp head of Peter's cock, spreading precome down the length. Peter gave a filthy groan, so Stiles did it again. Then he leaned in for a kiss while he wrapped his hand around the shaft, feeling the weight and heat of it. It throbbed under his touch, and Peter’s breathing quickened.

Stiles started moving his hand up and down in a steady rhythm, trying to remember what Peter liked from last night. What Peter liked, apparently, was Stiles’s hand anywhere near his dick, because it took barely half-a-dozen strokes before he tensed, back arching, and came with a deep groan, his eyes closed and his mouth hanging open as his come spilled onto his belly. It was a heady experience watching him fall apart, and Stiles suspected he could easily become addicted to Peter's O face.

Stiles worked Peter through the aftershocks, keeping his touch light, and Peter finally slumped back against the mattress, one arm snaking out and dragging Stiles in close. Stiles went willingly and collapsed onto his chest, still jelly-limbed from his own orgasm. He wiped his hand on a corner of the sheet and for a little while there was silence apart from the sound of their combined heavy breathing as they recovered.

Stiles had thought this morning might be awkward after what they did last night. He certainly hadn’t thought they’d have _more_ sex, yet here they were, cuddled up in a post-orgasmic haze—not that he was objecting. He tried to imagine waking up like this every day, and found he didn’t hate the idea.

“You’re quiet,” Peter said finally. “No regrets?”

“Nope. I thought things might be weird this morning, but instead”— he gave a half-shrug—“my hot fiance sexed me up. Why would I regret that? I mean, enjoy the journey, right?”

Peter hummed. “Exactly. How do you like it so far?”

“So far? Five stars on Tripadvisor,” Stiles said promptly.

Peter huffed out a laugh. “I’m flattered, sweet boy.” Stiles hummed and closed his eyes, brain too fucked-out and sleep-fuzzy to talk more, and he must have dozed, because when he opened his eyes next Peter was rolling him over onto his side of the bed. “Time to get up, sweetheart,” Peter said, before sitting up in bed and stretching, affording Stiles a view of tan skin and flexing muscles that was objectively gorgeous, even when half-asleep. He would have loved to soak it up for longer, but then Peter was out of bed and heading for the bathroom, and Stiles had to settle for watching his ass as he strolled away instead. As consolation prizes went, it was still pretty great.

Stiles sighed and dragged himself upright, deciding that he’d head back to his own rooms. He fished around on the floor for his clothes and shrugged into his pants and shirt. He hesitated for a moment, unsure if Peter would be offended if he left without saying anything. In the end he knocked on the bathroom door. “Peter? I’ll see you downstairs,” he called over the sound of running water, and Peter made a sound of acknowledgement.

He stuffed his socks into his pants pocket and carried his shoes, stepped out of Peter's door, and promptly walked smack-bang into a muscled chest.

“Stiles,” Derek said, one eyebrow raised. The corners of his mouth quirked up as he looked Stiles up and down, taking in last night's clothing. “I guess I don't need to ask if date night was a success?” His nostrils flared, and Stiles was suddenly very aware that he must still smell like Peter and sex. Stiles felt his cheeks heat as he ducked his head, unsure how to answer. Derek sighed, obviously taking pity on him, and reached out and straightened the collar on his shirt. “I’m teasing, Stiles. I know this is an arrangement, but for what it's worth I’m glad it’s going well.”

“Thank you,” Stiles said with as much dignity as he could muster—which, considering he was carrying his shoes and wearing an unbuttoned shirt, wasn't much. He pushed past a grinning Derek and scurried to his own rooms, and spent the next ten minutes scrubbing himself thoroughly in the shower and thanking his stars that at least it hadn’t been Cora.

When he thought about Cora though, it struck him that he couldn’t remember anyone in the pack making mention of it, even jokingly, when she and Isaac had finally started sharing a suite and appearing at breakfast together. And it was Hannah accusing him and Peter of not smelling like each other that had made Talia declare that the Nebraska pack had crossed a line. Maybe it was taboo for wolves to mention it when they smelled sex on their packmates? He hoped so, anyway.

He dressed and went down to breakfast, partly holding his breath as he waited for the other shoe to drop, for Cora or even Talia to make a comment, but all that happened was that Talia ruffled his hair and mentioned that if he wanted to get it cut before the wedding, it should be this week to let the sharp edges grow out, and Peter nodded his agreement. “I’ll take you to my barber after school,” he declared. “I’m not having you turn up at the wedding looking like you just came from Supercuts.”

Stiles nodded and ate his cereal—granola, because Peter had already poured him a bowl and handed it to him, along with his coffee. “When are we getting the suits?”

Peter hummed. “Saturday morning, I think. If you’re free? That leaves two weeks for any alterations.”

_Two weeks._

The reminder should have made Stiles panic, but it seemed that getting physical with Peter had changed something fundamental between them, and suddenly the prospect wasn’t as terrifying as it had been. Stiles found, to his surprise, that he was almost looking forward to it.

Huh.

Maybe this would work out after all.


End file.
